Family Secrets
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Some things refuse to stay buried.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them. The places and people in this work are entirely fictiona

Many thanks to Owl for the beta--a long piece to winnow through--and also for the long-term, no-interest loan of OCs.

**Author's Note: **This story has its roots in one by Owl titled "Portrait of Justice in Back and White", which introduced the Arkansas home of the Hardcastle Aunts, May and Zora, as well as Owl's own creations: the very bad Aaron Jordan, his even worse father, and the utterly quirky Dr. Brent. She graciously joined me for a continuation of the tale in "A Worden Christmas", in which Aaron returned from his first year of Army service a wiser man, and things worked out well for the heretofore out-of-luck Postgate family.

But, as we've seen, small-town life is not without its dark side, and any visit to the aunts stands a high risk of being fraught with clues and suspects.

**Family Secrets**

by L.M. Lewis

**Part 1**

It might have been the letter from Aunt May and Aunt Zora, arriving inside a package of oatmeal spice cookies and full of references to local doings and harvest home from the aunts' own very productive garden.

"They're tearing down the old shed—gonna put in a greenhouse," Hardcastle announced as he handed the missive over to Mark and headed for the coffee pot. "They've got plans for an orchard, too."

Mark squinted down at the letter. It was May's hand, which was flowery to the point of illegibility, but with a footnote from Zora—in a decisive block print that could have easily been lifted straight from a surveyor's map—in which there was a mention of the project. Mark suspected the judge had cut to the chase and left the rest of the deciphering to him.

"The Baptist church is having a fall festival," Mark said cheerfully, "and the Ladies Guild made a quilt to auction off for," he frowned, ". . . something. A worthy cause," he finished up, a little less decisively. "I don't think it's a wordy cause."

"You never know with those gals." Hardcastle shook his head. "They can talk up a storm." He grabbed another cookie from the box and leaned against the sink, over by the back window, coffee cup in his other hand.

The back door rattled in the jamb as the house was buffeted again. The Santa Ana had been in full force for two days now. That might have been part of it, too.

"You've never been to Arkansas in the fall," he said, taking another bite of cookie and a swig from the cup. "Beautiful country. That stand of trees out back of the house—you got your sweet gum over by the pines, and down by the creek there's paw-paw and serviceberry. Gold and red. It starts to get cool at night. Great weather."

"And there's more cookies where these came from," Mark added, wistfully, though there were still a half dozen left.

"And Gerald won't be there." Hardcastle smiled brightly. "Not if there's a shed to be torn down."

"A little crowbar action," Mark pondered, speculatively flexing his right hand, "beats the writer's cramp."

"We could use a break." Hardcastle had already put his cup in the sink and was moving toward the phone, filching another cookie as he passed.

"But," Mark glanced toward the window at the trees tossing in the hot wind, "what if there's a fire?" It had only been a few years since the last.

"If there's a fire, they'll shag us all out of here. What'd we do anyway?"

Mark had a notion that Hardcase wouldn't be shagged very easily. There'd be some kind of last stand involving wet burlap bags and maybe a firebreak in the north forty. Might be better to have him safely ensconced among the sweet gum and paw-paw, and make sure he stayed away from the television when the news was on.

And it was a done deal, anyway. The judge was already dialing.

"Autumn in Arkansas," he muttered to himself. And with a smile and a reach for another cookie, he went back to deciphering the greetings from Worden.

00000

"And the Postgates are looking into buying the Kendicott place," Mark added. "I think that was about it." He frowned "Might have been something else about pigs. It was hard to tell . . . anyway," he shrugged, "Dan must be doing pretty well for himself, to be thinking about a mortgage." He remembered his first meeting of the man, only the previous Christmas, when Dan and his young wife, Lisa, had taken shelter in the ramshackle barn of the virtually-abandoned Kendicott farm.

"Aw, that place has been standing empty for a couple of years now. The heirs'll probably be glad to have someone finally take it off their hands. And, yeah, when I talked to them last night, Zora said he's got his hands full—projects backing up. He'll be glad for a little help with the shed tear-down."

The plane was coming down, through a layer of scattered clouds and into the Little Rock airport. Out beyond the center of town were smatterings of trees, starting to pick up their autumn coloring.

"And Gerald was in south Florida, last they heard, which was a couple of months ago." Hardcastle smiled with satisfaction.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that naming calls?"

Mark grinned as the judge's expression went momentarily concerned. Then the wheels touched down and the flight attendant began the arrival announcements.

00000

They'd already sorted it out. Mark would retrieve the luggage while the judge staked a place in the car rental line. But all those plans were cut short by a cheery hellos and much excited waving from the aunts—Zora in the lead with May coming up spryly behind her.

"Aw," Hardcastle said under his breath with a duck of his head toward Mark, "I told 'em they didn't have to come all this way."

Mark was grinning and the ladies were upon them, fussing and smiling. The judge repeated his comment, this time to them, as they headed away from the deplaning crowd.

It might have been his imagination, but Hardcastle thought he saw the two ladies exchange a significant glance. There was the merest beat of collusion, followed by May's cheerful protestations—

"It was no problem at all. Zora likes to get the Studebaker out on the highway now and then."

Zora nodded enthusiastically. "You know what Mark always says—you need to remind the car it has a third gear once in a while. Right, dear?"

Mark nodded a little less enthusiastically, as though even he could tell something was up.

"And I'm guessing you two haven't had any lunch yet," Zora continued on, undismayed by the slight tension that had arisen. "They have a very nice café here."

"Okay," Hardcastle had pulled up to a sharp halt, still a hundred feet short of the baggage carousel, "what gives? First you tell me you like highway driving, and the scraps you toss to the cats are better than airport terminal food."

May bit her lip, Zora straightened her shoulders and looked as though she were steeling for some rough weather.

"Well," she began stalwartly, "we were making the trip anyway."

"Yes," May interjected, "it really was the most amazing coincidence."

Hardcastle felt the corrugation of his forehead, accompanied by a frown.

"_What_ coincidence?" he said sharply, unmindful of an elbow Mark had driven into his side.

"Last night, the call," May said, ever cheerful, "from Gerald, in Florida."

The elbow was back, and this time it meant business. Hardcastle grunted and then hissed, "I _am_ staying calm."

"No you're not, Milton," Zora said solicitously. "You seem very tense."

"Very," May added. "It's a good thing you are taking some time off. A nice visit is just what you need. Maybe a cordial. Do you suppose they have cordials at the café?" This last bit had been directed at Zora, who was otherwise occupied, studying the incoming flight board.

"I'll go get the bags," Mark offered, "unless you want me to stick around and remind you to stay calm."

"You had something to do with this?"

He got a hasty shake of the head back from the younger man. "Just one of those strange coincidences," Mark assured him. "Anyway, it seemed like you two were making real progress last time."

"That was ten and a half months ago. And you remember me inviting him to the Dodgers opening day. He said yes and everything."

"A no-show," Mark said in aside to the aunts, who were listening with nervous attention.

"He cashed the ticket," Hardcastle muttered.

"Waste not, want not," May said, patting him on the shoulder.

00000

Hardcastle stayed calm. Mark fetched the bags. They had lemonade and club sandwiches at the café, and Gerald's plane was only a half-hour late.

He trundled off the jet way, half a head taller than most in the surrounding crowd and craning a bit, finally catching site of the greeting party and breaking into an expansive grin.

"Ya beat me here," he said enthusiastically as he approached. He seemed neither surprised nor dismayed to see his elder brother. He had a peck on the cheek for each of his aunts, and a firm handshake for Mark.

The judge kept both hands in his pockets and a stern expression on his face.

00000

Mark got to drive. Gerald had the front passenger seat, with Milt in back, an aunt to either side. The closeness was a discouragement to muttering, Mark supposed. The aunts picked up the conversational slack, and it was mostly an update of things that had been touched on in the letter.

"Daniel and Lisa are just waiting on the final approval of the mortgage," Zora said excitedly. "The Kendicott children were willing to settle for a very small down payment just to have the place off their hands, and Daniel is talking about turning it into a bed and breakfast."

"Lisa's been doing a little light housekeeping for us and picking up a few kitchen hints," May added.

Mark digested this. The aunts needed no housekeeper, by which it could be understood that Daniel's wife was being given personal tutorials on how to run a five-star kitchen.

"And Daniel wants to tear down that ramshackle barn. There's quite a market for weathered barn wood, he says, and he's already lined up a buyer here in Little Rock. The threshing floor is particularly valuable."

"Then why didn't those Kendicott kids cash in on it?" Gerald asked. "He better not let that news get out before he's got his name on the deed."

"Oh," Zora sighed, "it's no big secret. It's just that it takes a lot of effort to dismantle it properly without damaging the pieces, more than most people would be willing to put into it, but Daniel thinks he can make back most of the down payment on the place with a week's solid work."

"And we thought," May hesitated, "well, since you boys were here, and you mentioned you might help with our shed, maybe you'd like to lend a hand with the barn as well. Nothing like a good day's work to improve the appetite."

"Kind of like a barn raising in reverse," Mark said, sounding fairly enthusiastic.

Gerald didn't climb on board right away, but it wasn't too embarrassingly long a pause before he said, dutifully, "Sounds kinda interesting."

"Well, hardly that," Zora said, "but it's an old place. You never know what might turn up there—why, last year Mrs. Byrd found a tin full of paper money in her root cellar. It came to nearly five thousand dollars."

Gerald perked up considerably.

"Of course they were Arkansas Treasury Warrants—Confederate bills, sad to say," May murmured, "but her grandson brought them to school for show and tell and the ladies of the UDC wanted to borrow them for an exhibit at the county fair."

Gerald's sudden interest flagged.

"The tin was thought to be of historic interest as well," Zora added. "You just never know what you'll find in an old building."

Through all this, the judge had held his peace. Now, though, he must have felt a moral obligation to jump on the bandwagon, maybe even steer it a little.

"It's the neighborly thing to do—helping out the Postgates."

"But I live in _Miami_," Gerald pointed out.

"When you're in Worden, you live with May and Zora," his elder brother said quietly, with a preternatural calm that made both the aunts stare. "That makes you a neighbor."

It wasn't so much the logic as the tone of patient moral authority, Mark concluded. He'd been at the receiving end of that a couple of times, and he suspected Gerald didn't have the kind of fortitude he had. Much as he expected, there wasn't much resistance.

"Yeah, well, I suppose it is the neighborly thing—like you said."

Gerald had said it as if it were a line off a script, with very little personal conviction. Mark caught Hardcastle's satisfied smile in the rearview mirror. There was no chance that he believed it, either, but as a prelude to the man suddenly discovering he had pressing business back in Miami, it couldn't be beat.

00000

Lisa Postgate was out on the porch a moment after they'd pulled in. Mark might not have recognized her from his brief acquaintance of ten months previous—her hair brushed and pulled back, and a contented smile on her face—and certainly not the strapping child on her hip, who was reaching for the aunts in obvious familiarity as soon as they climbed out of the car.

"I went ahead and got things started. The rolls are rising," Lisa smiled, there was still a bit of the shyness about her, but far less of the uncertainty that had shadowed her face the previous December. If he had been stuck with a one-word description for the change, Mark would have had to say she'd _bloomed_. No surprise there—the aunts were inveterate gardeners, and even the spindliest plants had a chance with them.

The women retreated to the kitchen in conference. Mark caught, in passing, that Daniel was at the church, catching up on odd jobs, but mostly waiting for the phone calls—one from Ms. Eisley at the bank concerning the decision on the mortgage, and one from the Kendicotts, regarding the bid they had made on the old farm.

Dinner was pork roast with harvest apple garnish, and May's famous cheese potatoes. There were pumpkin custard tarts for dessert with ice cream on the side.

"Lisa made the tarts," May advised them.

The young woman blushed prettily at the outpouring of compliments and was saved from further effusions by footsteps on the porch and a brisk knock on the door. The rhythm must have been a familiar one. Lisa was on her feet at once. "It's him."

She edged past the wooden highchair that Billy occupied—obviously a permanent fixture in the aunts' kitchen—and was through the kitchen door before anyone else could rise.

Voices were heard—hers inquiring earnestly, his a laugh, which boded well but wasn't confirmed until he came through the door, one arm around Lisa in a still tight squeeze.

"We got it," he grinned, and there was no doubt from his grin that he meant both bid and mortgage. And then, half to Lisa, "I woulda called you but I wanted to see your face when I gave you the news."

Zora looked up at the kitchen clock, and then back at him. "They kept you waiting long enough."

Dan's grin tamped down slightly. "Aw, well, I went by the place on my way here—_our _place, or at least it will be as soon as the signing's done—tomorrow afternoon's okay with you, Leese? I really want to get going on some of the fixing before the weather sets in."

She nodded cheerfully. He smiled down on her, then seemed to remember he'd been explaining something else.

"Oh, and, well, I was there, looking it over, and you know that loose board on the porch—just needed a couple of nails and I had my toolbox in the truck."

"So it begins," Mark said, shaking his head. "And it _never_ ends." But he was grinning, as well. "Congratulations, you two."

The rest of the evening was spent in the convivial discussion of way and means. Dan and Lisa had every intention of having the place fixed up and running by spring, and were eager to get started.

"'Course I can't put the other jobs on the back burner," Daniel assured them. "I know I've made some commitments—you ladies'll have your greenhouse before the first of January, just like I promised."

"Don't you worry about that right now, young man." Zora reached out and patted his arm. "We've got plenty of time before we'll need it. The important thing is for you to get all that dratted paperwork done and then get that first payment made."

Then the two women were making space for him at the table, and helpings of everything were being loaded onto his plate. There was conversation, between mouthfuls, about what repairs would be needed to make the Kendicott house useable again.

"By April or May, we hope," Lisa added, with a hopeful smile. "There's the two upstairs rooms, and a bath, that we want to turn into a suite. The Ladies Guild promised us a quilt."

Dan's dinner ended with _two_ pumpkin tarts, the first one having been so good that he just couldn't say no to a second.

"You have to keep your strength up," May admonished. "That barn is a big project."

"Hey, what about us?" Gerald asked, holding up his empty dessert plate. "We're going to help, aren't we?"

Dan demurred, and Gerald might've accepted, but the judge pushed the issue through by fiat and the matter was soon settled. But as a compromise there was a second helping of tarts all around. By the time they finished those, Billy was dozing in his mother's lap.

"Don't worry about the dishes," Zora said quietly. "You two just get home and get that little man tucked in properly. You all have a big day tomorrow."

There were murmured goodnights and jackets sorted out, and finally the Postgates were off.

"Nice kids," Hardcastle said, after the door had closed behind them. "I hope they make a go of this thing."

"Don't you fret about that," May said with sly smile. "Zora and I know the editor of that tourism magazine the state puts out—she's a former member of the Lex Portly Fan Club."

Zora clucked once.

May sighed. "Well, we can't help it that the man turned out to be a murderer—"

"And a _plagiarist_," Zora reminded her. "And he nearly did Milton in," she added, almost as an afterthought.

The near-victim made a rumbling noise. It might have been an unvoiced request to get the discussion back on track. May look slightly put-out for a moment but finally picked up the thread of the abandoned conversation. "Anyway, Belinda said she'd send a photographer down when it's done, and if the place has 'charm', they'll give it a two-page spread. They're always looking for undiscovered, out of the way places."

"And you can't get much more out of the way than Worden," Zora pointed out sagely.

Gerald cocked his head. "Maybe they should keep the barn. All that weathered wood—got a lot of charm there," he suggested hopefully.

"No," May shook her head. "It's a hazard. It's one of those barns they threw up in a hurry at the start of the war, when farming got profitable again."

From there the conversation rambled back to the old days, which didn't seem all that long ago for May and Zora, who had an almost encyclopedic memory, between them, for the people and events of their town and the surrounding area. Mark watched Hardcastle get drawn into it. He could see that the man's racontuering skills were a family trait. In this case judge's contributions were from the perspective of a younger man, and one who'd gone off to war while the aunts had kept the home fires burning, but many of the names they mentioned were familiar to him—the whole county had had but one high school back then.

Only Gerald seemed bored, or maybe it was that a few of the stories that had touched on him had draw looks of reprobation from his elder brother. It wasn't all that long before the younger Hardcastle excused himself. It might have been to see a man about a horse. In Gerald's case the probability seemed likely to be literally true, but Mark thought there might also be a question of filching one last pumpkin tart.

He figured he was right about one or all of his conclusions when Gerald didn't return in any reasonable interval. Eventually Mark had to do a little horse trading of his own. A quick "'Scuse me" to the ladies and he lumbered to his feet, feeling overfed and sleepy despite the relatively early hour.

His route took him past the kitchen, close enough in the hallway to hear words. He frowned, puzzled. He hadn't intended to overhear, but it was obvious that Gerald was on the phone and the conversations, though low-pitched and moderate in volume, was intense.

_He's in some kinda trouble again._

"I toldja I didn't want nothing to do with her, didn't I?" There was a hiss of adamancy to Gerald's statement. It occurred to Mark that he'd never heard the man truly enraged—making other people angry was more Gerald's M.O. But this time he sounded steamed. "And then you go and tell her where I'm staying." There was a pause. It didn't seem likely that the person on the other end had gotten any words in edgewise, though, before Gerald was off again, more muttering than anything else. "At least I'm out of state. If she gets a court order, I don't think they can serve papers on me here." This time there must have been something from the other party. Gerald's voice rose a notch in both pitch and volume as he said, "Hell, no." Then he dropped it down again, in apparent self-consciousness, and said the rest in a harsh whisper, "I'm not taking no blood tests. I _hate_ needles."

Mark's frown deepened as the nature of Gerald's current woes became clearer. He suddenly found himself not wanting to hear anymore, and with equal suddenness he understood what the judge had alluded to repeatedly since Gerald had wandered back into his life three years back—the man had an infinite ability to _disappoint_. Mark had made light of it. He'd encouraged Hardcastle to look past his brother's failings.

Now he finally got it. When you did that with Gerald, what you were likely to see was . . . more failings. He shook his head and tried to remind himself that it was really none of his business. Too bad that this particular character flaw was a deal-breaker for Mark. Up till now, despite everything else, he'd really liked Gerald.

00000

He'd said nothing to Hardcastle about what he'd heard, and going to bed early had sounded fine to him, even with the two-hour time difference they'd acquired on their flight east. Despite his willingness to hit the sack, once he was there he found himself lying awake, alternating tossing and turning with periods of staring up at the shadowing darkness of the ceiling.

It must have been twenty minutes or so into that routine that he heard Hardcastle's voice out of the darkness.

"Too many pumpkin tarts, huh? Aunt May probably has an old bottle of bromo-seltzer around here, I'll bet. You want me to ask?"

Mark half-smiled to himself. It was a natural error and he didn't much feel like correcting it. Even now he didn't want to add to Hardcastle's already low opinion of his brother.

"Nah," he said. "It's nothing. It'll pass."

It did, gradually, but only after he promised himself he'd have a few words with Gerald at the earliest suitable opportunity—try to get him to see that there might be more to life than the next big win, and maybe having someone to look up to him would be worth the inconvenience of caring.

00000

Saturday morning came bright and clear, with just a touch of fall crispness to the air. Hardcastle's bed was already vacated, but the man had let him sleep in, as befitted a vacation. Mark supposed the chances were that Gerald wasn't up either, though the man could be surprisingly unslothful when the aunts' cooking was available.

He was right; both men were ensconced at the kitchen table, the judge lingering over a cup of coffee and Gerald still tucking into his eggs and sausage.

"Thought you'd sleep clear till noon," Hardcastle said, with a glance up at the clock which, as far as Mark could see, said it was only nine-thirty—a respectable seven-thirty by Malibu time.

He didn't point this out though, feeling vaguely and guiltily relieved that this was not the morning he'd be getting a few private words with Gerald. Instead he pulled a chair out in front of an unused place setting and gave May a quick nod of his chin.

"Where's Aunt Zora?"

"She went to pick up Billy. We thought it would be nice if Lisa and Dan could have a little lunch before they headed over to the bank to sign the papers."

Mark briefly wondered if a young couple with a baby to take care of might have thoughts other than lunch when someone stepped in and took up the slack. He kept that to himself, though, and only asked, fairly innocently, "When's the closing?"

"Two o'clock."

Mark smiled. There might be time for lunch _and_ some celebrating, he supposed.

"I thought we'd get started on the shed," Hardcastle said. "Good practice for helping out with the barn."

Gerald looked up sharply, as if on the verge of a complaint. He didn't voice it, though. His older brother's expression was adamant. Mark accepted a plate of eggs and sausage from Aunt May and didn't dawdle. He was actually looking forward to using a pry bar for a legal endeavor.

00000

He decided he had a special fondness for tearing things down. The morning went fast, after they'd gotten the shed emptied out and the tools sorted and stored in the garage. From there on it was prying boards off the frame. Hardcastle had vetoed the three of them taking turns swinging a mallet, and the pry bars really were more practical. Aunts May and Zora had promised any wood that might be salvaged to Dan, though they all agreed that "weathered shed wood" didn't have quite the same panache.

They'd reduced the place to the knee-high remains of two walls by lunchtime, and by three they'd demolished those and carefully hammered the remaining nails out of the already separated boards. That was when Aunt May came out on the back porch, summoning the sweaty crew.

"They're here!"

Good enough reason for a break. Mark examined a blister on the palm of his right hand and tried to remember what it was that he hadn't liked about working behind a desk. He gave up, knowing it would come back to him quick enough when they returned to LA. In the meantime they were swept up in the aunts' excitement and ushered into the house.

There was only time for a quick clean-up and a band-aid before champagne was being poured in the front room for a toast to the Postgates' current and future success.

"What will you call it?" Aunt Zora asked, after they'd all tinked their glasses and sipped.

Dan frowned slightly. "We haven't talked it out yet," he said. "Maybe we we're thinking we might jinx it." He smiled down at his wife, who'd reclaimed their son and was sitting, her arms entwined around him in a loose embrace.

"Don't know," she said softly. "I think when we come up with the right name, we'll know it."

"Well," Mark said, "here's to whatever you call it. May your home always be too small to hold all your friends!" He lifted his glass in cheer and took another sip. It was matched by the others.

They sipped and chatted, with Billy finally getting squirmy and needing to be put down. Dan seemed restless, too, and Mark finally suggested they step out back to see the progress. The two older men gave that a nod, but didn't seem in any particular hurry to join them.

Mark and Dan parked their champagne glasses and donned their jackets. As an afterthought, Mark also grabbed a pair of work gloves from the mudroom. Dan glanced at his bandaged palm and grinned. "Still happens to me sometimes, too, if there's something I haven't done in a while." He held up a hand that looked thoroughly calloused. "My dad used to say he never trusted anybody who didn't have 'em."

"Somebody's got to push papers." Mark smiled. "But look," he pointed to the neatly stacked pile of boards, lying on the former shed floor. "Not too bad for a bunch of city boys, eh?"

Dan passed judgment with a satisfied nod and then glanced up at the sun, which had already taken on an orange cast as it descended into the western cloud banks.

"We could haul it back to the barn, store it all in one place. Wouldn't take us all that long."

"Give the old guys a chance to catch their breath," Mark said with a grin, not willing to admit he'd been a little winded himself. "Sounds like a plan."

Dan brought his venerable truck around, and the loading was quickly done.

"Looks like maybe two trips," Mark said.

"Yeah," Dan agreed, eyeing the sagging suspension with chagrin. "Maybe the second one after dinner." There were already tempting odors from the aunts' kitchen wafting on the late afternoon air.

There was only a quick duck of Dan's head back in through the door, long enough to inform the rest of their plan, then they started off, with Mark settling back into the passenger seat with a strange sense of déjà vu. Dan's truck was nearly a carbon copy of the one the judge had owned back when Mark had first come to Gull's Way. There was a backward drift in memory, and a lull in the conversation. They were almost to the turn-off—the dirt road that lead to the Kendicotts' former place—when Dan finally spoke again.

"Zora and May—they've been great. Nobody's ever been so nice to us. They even talked to Ms. Eisley, down at the bank. She's the loan manager." He hesitated and then, "I think there was some trouble, about us getting the mortgage."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Oh, well, we were never quite sure, but your aunt said she was getting a hard time from her dad—he used to be a banker, too, before he retired. Said we were a bad risk. Well," he grimaced, "why not? We're not from around here, and me being kinda self-employed—"

"It's more like _everybody_ employs you." Mark smiled. "And I hear there isn't enough of you to go around, most of the time. That Eisley guy probably just didn't want you leaving the trade. He wanted to make sure there'd be somebody to add a back porch on his place or something like that. Anyway, the aunts, they're like that. They kind of adopt people."

Dan nodded. "That's what I heard." He cast a quick, almost nervous, glance sideward. "Well, you know Leese spends a lot of time over there. She never really had a mom, and they've been like that to her—showing her stuff . . . talking . . ."

"About stuff," Mark finished for him, after a long pause.

"Yeah," Dan nodded again, and then, almost abruptly, he added, "they talk a lot about you. Leese says you're sort of adopted."

"Sort of," Mark's grin was a little nervous now, too.

"Is the rest of it all true?"

"Probably," Mark admitted. "The aunts aren't too big on lying." He shook his head and let out a sigh. "'Course they aren't too big on not telling the truth, either. So, yeah, I'm an ex-con, if that's what you were getting around to."

"Oh," Dan sat up a little straighter, "I didn't mean about that. May said it was kind of a big misunderstanding."

"'Misunderstanding', huh?" Mark was grinning ruefully. "I suppose that's one way of putting it. I sure as hell never understood it."

Now Dan's expression was frankly puzzled. "Well, that's kinda at the bottom of it—the being in prison—what I was wondering about was the part after. Judge Hardcastle and you and all those stories May and Zora tell. Is all _that_ true?"

Mark cocked his head thoughtfully and said, "Allowing for a certain amount of literary license, yeah . . . and probably then some. I think maybe the judge doesn't always tell the aunts just exactly everything."

"And the writer who was a hit man and the dead guy in the swimming pool—"

"All regrettably true."

"And the feller who wrote murder mysteries murdering the mobster who was his ghostwriter and then trying to poison the judge—"

"Yeah, it happened."

Dan frowned, staring out through the windshield as he navigated the rutted road. "I dunno, I thought being a judge was a lot more . . . ah—"

"Sedentary?" Mark interjected. "Well, I think maybe it was, and that's why he retired."

They were both considering that as Dan pulled past the row of trees that bordered his new property. The buildings cast long shadows across the autumn-brown lawn. He maneuvered the truck alongside the barn, to shorten the unloading. He'd just put it in park, and shut down the engine, when Mark heard a clattering noise. He looked sharply to the side, catching Dan's equally baffled expression.

They both clambered out. There were more noises now—scuffling and some muffled words—and then the sound of a door being thrown open on the far side of the barn.

"What the—" Dan had only half finished a shout of his own before he'd taken off at a trot, in through the door on their side.

Mark shouted, "Wait!" and, that not working, took off after him, pausing in the unlit interior, the gloom revealing nothing but Dan's silhouette against the relative light from the wide open far door.

"Kids," Dan muttered, "that's all. They skedaddled."

Mark looked around. "No damage?"

Dan glanced over his shoulder, back into the barn, and shrugged. "How the hell could you tell if there was?"

He was right. Now that they'd had a moment to acclimate there was plenty of light coming in through the chinks. The interior of the place contained only a few musty bales of straw and some rusted tools. There was a kerosene lamp in one corner, with some loosely-piled straw.

"Just kids," Mark agreed, "hanging out. How many were there?"

"Three, maybe four. Hard to tell, they were already headed into the woods."

"Welcome to the world of responsible adulthood." Mark shook his head. "A couple more years and it'll be 'just those damn kids'. What do you think they wanted?"

"Who knows, just as long as they didn't burn the place down.

Mark stepped over to the rusted implements and tentatively kicked at what looked to be a shovel and a crowbar.

"Maybe they were looking for something. Buried treasure."

"_Here_?" Dan smiled and shook his head.

"Well, you know how it is. Rumors get started. Somebody probably heard you were interested in the place and that got things started. The whole thing about tearing down the barn might've sounded like some kind of treasure hunt."

Dan stared out the door again, across to the now-still woods. He frowned for a moment and then shrugged and said, "Yeah, probably something like that. Let's get those boards unloaded."

They got the job done in a hurry, with thoughts of dinner for motivation, but once

finished, Dan didn't seem all that eager to depart.

"Still worried about those kids?" Mark asked. "Looks to me like we scared 'em off. We can take the lantern and the tools, just for good measure."

Dan nodded at the suggestion and the piled the items in the back. Then he gave the place one last long look.

"Come on," Mark prodded, "Biscuits. Fried chicken. We'll be back this evening."

Dan finally loosened up a grin and climbed in the truck. "You're right. I have the rest of my life to hang around here, straightening things up. Let's go eat."

00000

There were White Lily biscuits, fluffy enough to be Aunt May's own, though full credit was given to Lisa. The fried chicken was crisp and juicy and the potatoes were definitely up to the aunts' standard—Billy crowed his approval.

Somewhere in the middle of the second helpings Mark mentioned the intruders they'd run off that afternoon. He watched Hardcastle purse his lips at the mention of "kids", undoubtedly in recollection of another visit to Worden, a few years back, in which Mark had had a run-in with a few of the town's delinquents.

May picked up on it, almost at once. "The Pickett boys—well, they aren't really boys anymore, finished up school and everything—they've got themselves a feedlot. Pigs."

"And Aaron Jordan made sergeant just a few weeks back," Zora added.

The judge raised one eyebrow in skepticism.

"There was an article about it in the Worden Gazette," May said, settling the matter.

Zora glanced up at the clock. "We'll put off the dessert until you two have finished that second load," she said to the younger men. "It's apple pie."

With that for inspiration, and no way to claim they were being turned out hungry, Mark and Dan rose from the table. Dan gave his wife a peck on the cheek. "Won't take but a few minutes."

"We'll help you load up," Hardcastle said, nudging Gerry to his feet and prodding him toward the door to join the other two.

With eight hands the loading went quickly and the truck was soon on its way. This time they took the road slower, though, out of kindness to the undercarriage. By the time they reached the clearing where the barn stood, Dan was merely creeping along, intent on not finding the worst ruts in the road.

The quarter moon seemed paltry once the headlights were cut. Mark climbed out and felt his footing carefully as he turned toward the back of the truck.

"Might need that lantern," Dan muttered, as he reached into the bed of the truck and pulled at some boards. "The electricity is still off."

"Left it back at the house." Mark grabbed the other end of what Dan had half-slid free.

The two of them headed up the short slope to the barn door—Dan in the lead and each carrying an end of the awkward bundle of boards. Mark was mostly focused on keeping his footing in the dark. There was a fraction of a second—between when the darker shape struck him and his face hit the ground—in which he thought Dan had stumbled and was falling backwards.

The second blow, this one to his head, settled that. He was reaching up, trying to defend himself against an unseen assailant, when he heard a voice that made him wonder if the whole thing wasn't some unpleasant flashback.

The threat was there—hard, implacable. "Get off 'em or so help me I'll—"

Exactly what the new interloper intended wasn't spelled out, because in the next moment there was a hard swish of air and a solid thud. Mark thought it must have been a board, swung with intent and making solid contact with one of his attackers. It was obvious that there were more than one. Another swing, and a hit, and a mad scramble of shadowy figures yelping and scattering.

Mark heard Dan, his voice coming from somewhere off to the side, a muttering, as though he'd been knocked unconscious. "Wha' the hell . . .?"

Then there was a painfully bright beam, almost directly in his face—a flashlight. Mark squinted and then shut his eyes and let his head fall back on the ground.

"You two okay?"

"Yeah," Mark said, and then rolled over on his side and retched up a good part of what had been a substantial dinner. "Ugh." He spat and wiped his face on his sleeve. "Dan?"

"Uh-huh, m'okay." Then after a pause, and a little clearer, "What the hell happened?"

"Kids," Aaron Jordan said, dropping into a crouch with his flashlight now aimed down, he tilted Mark's face to take in the damage. "Looks like they got you good." He moved over to Dan and repeated the maneuver. "Both of you. Best get you looked at before you tell Chief Sheridan what happened."

Dan was struggling to sit up. Mark gave him a concerned look and then turned back to the guy who'd rescued them. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, Aaron, but how'd you happen along? I didn't even know you were in town."

"You know him?" Dan said slowly, as though he were still a half-step off.

"Ah . . . yeah," Mark said, wondering if he should mention that Aaron had been in charge of the last gang of rural thugs who'd beaten him up in Worden, some four years back. No, he thought, let bygones be bygones. But he wasn't so forgiving as to not notice he still hadn't heard an explanation. He temporized. "This is Corporal, um, I mean _Sergeant_ Aaron Jordan. Aaron, meet Dan Postgate."

Aaron, running his fingers through his almost non-existent hair, grinned sheepishly. "That's _buck_ sergeant," he said. He looked surprisingly non-threatening for a guy who Mark knew personally could bust ribs. "I had a couple weeks leave since the promotion—got a tour in Korea up next—so that's why I'm home."

He'd said that last word without any note of irony. Mark already knew the man didn't get along at all with his fiercely prejudiced and explosively angry father. That Aaron had been able to tame his own violence, and harness it to the plow of military service, had been nothing short of astonishing.

"But you just happened by here tonight?" Mark prodded.

"Well . . . no, not exactly," Aaron admitted, flicking off the switch of his flashlight and plunging them all back into darkness. "like I said, I was back in town—went to visit the Pickett boys, we all went down to a road house for some beers and ran into some other folks I knew . . . heard some talk."

"What kind of 'talk'?" Mark asked sharply.

"Oh, nothing real specific," Aaron said quickly, and then he paused, as if he were trying to remember exactly what had been said. He finally added, "It was just _talk_, you know? The word was that some of the boys were going to go down to the Kendicott place and raise a ruckus. Try and run the new owner off. Said he was an outsider. No right to come in and start buying places up, tearing things down."

Mark cast a quick glance in the direction of the barn and then looked back sharply at the dark shape before him. "It's a _barn_, for Pete's sake. It's falling _apart_." He made a gesture of impatient disgust and then lumbered to his feet. Dan followed suit.

"I didn't say they made any sense," Aaron said gruffly. "That kinda stuff never makes much sense. It's too much beer and not enough to do, that's what was doing the talking." He got to his feet like a man who was in far better shape that either of the other two. He whacked the dust from his pants and gave the whole set-up the quick, focused look of someone who would never be taken by surprise. Then his attention came back to the walking wounded. "You can drive? Get back into town and all—see the doc."

Dan nodded, though there might have been a moment's hesitation there. He finally added, "I'm fine. Just banged up a little. Nothing a doctor can do anything about. You?"

He'd turned to Mark, who shrugged and said, "Yeah, same here. It's the police we really need to talk to." He glanced around briefly and then said, "Or the sheriff. We're outside the town limits, right?"

He could see Dan's face, now that his own eyes were adapted to the darkness. The man's expression was closed. There was a pause before he answered and Mark had already figured out what he'd say.

"Just a bunch of kids, up to no good. I didn't see any of their faces, did you?"

The question seemed to include both of them. Aaron shook his head.

Mark protested, "So you file a complaint, let the sheriff know what's going on. If you don't at least do that—"

Dan hooked a thumb in Aaron's direction. "He's right, you know. I _am_ an outsider. Only been here less than a year. I don't want to stir up any trouble."

"Well, you're wrong about that," Aaron said. The interruption had been unexpected and Mark jerked a glance toward him. "It's true," the man continued. "You let it ride, thinking you don't want a little trouble, and eventually it becomes big trouble. That kind knows who they can mess with . . . well," Aaron flicked a sudden, brief grin, "mostly."

Mark felt a tight smile creeping up. He knew Sgt. Jordan was speaking from personal experience again. The one miscalculation of Aaron's misspent youth had been taking on him and Hardcastle.

"Listen," Jordan said, "I know how it works."

"I do, too," Dan answered grimly. "Been an outsider all my life, always moving on. I'm here to set down roots. Those . . . _kids_, they just wanted a ruckus. Their folks'd probably be ashamed. But if I send the sheriff after them—if he figures out who was doing the talking and hauls some of 'em in—their people'll rally 'round 'em, sure as sin. That's just how it is."

Dan took a deep breath and winced. Might be a bruised rib or two, Mark figured. Then he let it out slowly and said. "I just want some peace. I'm not aiming to start no trouble."

Aaron looked at him with stern disapproval. "Seems like the trouble's already started." But the other man didn't buckle and, after a moment, the sergeant just shook his head once and stepped back. "You want some help unloading this stuff?"

They unloaded, with Aaron doing as much as the two others together and the whole project accomplished with military efficiency. When that was done, Mark and Dan climbed into the truck. Dan looked at Aaron. "You need a lift?"

He got another quick shake of the head in return. "Nah," Jordan looked around again—those quick, assessing, _alert_ glances, "I think I'll stick around a little while, make sure they aren't hanging around out there, waiting for you to leave."

"You sure?" Mark asked. "By yourself?"

"Yes, sir," the grin was back, feral even by the dim moonlight, "I may not know exactly who they were, but they sure as hell must've recognized me. There's got to be some profit from having the meanest sonuvabitch in Worden for a father."

Mark risked a quick smile. He didn't think Aaron's reputation entirely rested on his father's dubious laurels, but if the man felt a certain need to make up for his own past transgressions, he thoroughly approved.

"Thanks," Dan said, looking a little uncertain about his new acquaintance but willing to put some sincerity into it. "I'm grateful."

"No problem," Aaron said, as he stepped back into the shadows. "No problem at all."

00000

The drive started out quietly enough, with only an occasional grunt of discomfort from one or both men when a patch of rough road was encountered. After the second or third of those Mark hesitantly said, "If it's a matter of money—seeing the doctor, I mean—"

"Nah," Dan said, "me and Doc Brent worked things out a while back. He takes care of Billy when he needs shots and stuff, and I haul him a load of firewood every couple of months. He's got an old woodlot, been in his family for years." The younger man sighed. "Look, I'm okay . . . leastwise, well enough. Been in enough fights to know when I'm just banged up, ain't you?"

Mark nodded then leaned forward to catch a glimpse of himself in the side mirror. "We're a pair," he said glumly. "There's gonna be a fuss when we get home. You sure you don't want to report it?"

Dan nodded, and it was too late for any more persuasion; they were pulling into the aunts' drive.

00000

There was, as predicted, a fuss. It started with Lisa's horrified expression as they came up under the light on the front porch, and lasted through May and Zora fetching warm water, towels, and mercurochrome, while Hardcastle tried to conduct the interrogation and Gerald hovered nearby, incensed but otherwise ineffectual.

It took a united front to prevent the summoning of Doctor Brent, though gradually even Zora had to agree that the damage was more showy than deep. On the matter of reporting it all to the sheriff, Dan would not be moved, and against his own better judgment, Mark backed him up.

Sheriff Jackson's a good man," Zora said stoutly. "Even if you didn't get a proper look at those . . . _villains_, he'd at least want to know what's going on, so he could keep an eye on things."

May nodded her accord. "He could even have a notion who the most likely suspects might be."

"Sound's like Aaron Jordan has a good idea about that," Hardcastle said with a scowl.

"I don't think so, Judge," Mark said firmly. "He's been away most of the last four years. Anyway, he saved our hides and was pretty insistent that we ought to talk to the sheriff, too."

Hardcastle frowned, looking unhappy to be caught in any point of agreement with the Jordan kid.

"And Dan has a point," Mark added, ignoring the startled look from the man he was supporting. "He can't afford to lose any of his customers, not now while he's got to meet payments on that mortgage. If accusations start flying around without proof, it could get ugly."

"It's wrong," Hardcastle said flatly.

"I've already made up my mind," Dan said, quiet but determined. Lisa sat next to him, biting her lip but not saying anything in disagreement.

After all the excitement, everyone seemed glad to call it a night. "I'm getting an early start tomorrow," Dan said. "Get that damn barn torn down and have done with it." There was general agreement on that, even from Gerald.

But the Postgates were scarcely out the door before Mark realized he was getting an unspoken signal from the judge. It was only a slight lift of one eyebrow and a small jerk of the man's chin in the direction he then proceeded—back toward the kitchen—but Mark knew he was expected to follow, no arguments.

He sighed, realizing it had all been a little too easy up till then, but he trudged after Hardcastle anyway. No one else took any apparent notice of their departure, a polite fiction which probably meant the aunts expected their blood nephew to talk some sense into their honorary one.

In the kitchen, things seemed start off civilly enough. The judge pulled out a chair for him. Mark should have realized, before he took the seat, that this served to give him a disadvantage in height—a physical symbol of Hardcastle occupying the moral high ground.

"You know just because Postgate's being a damn mule about this doesn't mean we need a matched set. I think we ought to give the doc a call."

Mark was already gingerly shaking his head no. "I won't say I'm fine, but I've been lots worse, and all old Brent is gonna do is get your blood pressure up and tell me to take it easy for a couple days. You know the drill as well as I do. You'll wake me up every couple of hours tonight and tomorrow I'll probably have a helluva shiner."

Hardcastle looked unconvinced, but willing to accede the argument in favor of the one that was dearer to him. "Okay," he grunted, "but what about us going to see this Jackson fellow? I've heard of him; they say he's a straight shooter."

"No," Mark said firmly. "That's Dan's decision—"

"But you were a victim, too," Hardcastle pointed out patiently. "Just 'cause he won't file a report doesn't mean—"

"Yes, it does. That's _exactly_ what it means. Look, I don't know for sure if he's right about this but he's the one who has to live here. In a week or so, when the Lone Ranger and Tonto have saddled up and headed home to Malibu, he'll be the one left back at the ranch—him and Lisa."

Mark didn't even bother with a scowl. He could tell, from the long, thoughtful pause that this notion was getting from the judge, that he'd already carried the argument. Of course that didn't mean the older man had to like it. Injustice in any form rankled Hardcastle and, much to his surprise, McCormick found himself silently sharing that sentiment.

Mark finally sighed and said, "Look, just because we can't stir up any official dust, doesn't mean we can't poke around a little ourselves, does it?"

He got no disagreement from the judge, in fact, the man's right eyebrow was up and he quirked a questioning half-grin of agreement. "Ask around a little. See what's what?"

"But _subtle_," Mark cautioned, to a man he strongly suspected wasn't familiar with the concept.

Hardcastle nodded once, sagely, and tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. Mark sighed. He might as well be talking to one of the aunts about the importance of "innocent until proven guilty by due process".

He covered his doubt with a simple request. "Not tonight, though. I'm tired, and you're going to be waking me up every couple of hours. The poking can wait till tomorrow."


	2. Chapter 2

**Family Secrets**

**Part 2**

The night passed in two hour increments, the last one ending in what seemed like a painfully early dawn. Hardcastle assured him that it wasn't—by farm standards—and then gave him a studying look and added, "You can back out of this, ya know."

Mark was already on his feet, feeling stiff and creaky and _old_. He shook his head—cautious, but firm.

"Nah. I'd be setting a bad example for Gerald."

The judge made a face. "He doesn't have an excuse. You do. Wait'll you try to shave."

"I was kinda figuring I'd take a pass on that." He fingered the bruises under the stubble gingerly and moved his jaw from side to side, just enough to assure himself that breakfast wouldn't be a problem. "Anyway, Dan got it worse than I did, and you know he'll be out there this morning."

Hardcastle nodded. There was no more debate and only a little jostling of the still-asleep Gerry in the next room over. The aunts were already up and at it, of course, and breakfast was on the table. Mark had to put up with some concerned looks and offers of liniment.

"Maybe tonight," he temporized.

Finally they were off—and finally was still just this side of full light. The sun was only peeping over the tree line when Mark maneuvered the Studebaker up the rutted drive that led to the Postgates' new home.

Dan was there, already surveying the project at hand. His face was more spectacularly purpled than Mark's but his gait was less stiff. Lisa was up on the porch, Billy on one hip. She waved with her free hand. There were greetings, and assurances that everyone was already fed and coffeed.

"Jordan's gone, huh?" Hardcastle asked acerbically.

Dan nodded. "Round daybreak. Told him he was welcome to stay for breakfast but he said he had some things to do."

This got a grunt from the judge but no actual criticism.

"I know it sounds cockeyed," Dan said, as the men moved off to set to it, "but I'd say we take out the threshing floor first. It's the hardwood, might take a while to pry up. With the rest still standing it'll be shadier work—drier, too, if we get some rain."

He didn't mention that neither he nor Mark was much fit for ladder climbing that morning and the older men were kind enough not to point it out, either. Pry bars were taken up. Dan had already worked one piece loose enough to get a start and now with six additional hands, they hoped to make steady progress.

The four-inch-thick oak boards were scarred and pitted, but solid. The work was a magnitude harder than dismantling the shed had been and the four were soon reduced to a sweaty silence punctuated only by grunts from the men and the groans of the planks as they were prized loose. There was progress—if not as fast as they'd wished—and they had nearly a third of the floor lifted and stacked before they heard Aunt Zora summoning them for a mid-morning break.

"Lemonade," she advised, "and some sandwiches, to keep your strength up."

Gerald turned and tossed down his tool, looking pleased. That was short-lived, though, as they all heard a sudden crack. There was a yelp of surprise and pain from Gerry. The judge turned back with a look of impatience but whatever he'd been on the verge of saying was cut short by the sight of his brother, left leg sunk knee-deep into the newly-exposed dirt. He settled for a muttered "What the hell . . .?" and an extended hand.

Gerry reached forward and then yelped again. "Dammit, something bit me."

Dan had gotten in closer, reaching toward the place where Gerald's leg disappeared. "Sheet metal," he said. "Hold still; the edge is kinda ragged. Musta rusted through." He was frowning as he worked his gloved hand in next to Gerald's knee and pulled. Something bent and then broke off.

"Pull it out now," Dan advised, and a moment later Gerald was sitting in the dirt, then edging back awkwardly.

Dan knelt, leaning over the now widened hole that Gerry had left behind. He peered down into it for a long moment.

"Got a flashlight over there," he finally said quietly. Mark fetched it, testing the ground before sidling in alongside the other man.

The judge was inspecting Gerald's knee—pants ripped and ragged but shallow scrapes, front and back. May had joined Zora in the doorway of the barn. "What in heaven's name—" she began slowly.

Dan looked pale and sober. He leaned back, sitting onto his heels and handing the flashlight to Mark, who took his own cautious look.

"Judge?" McCormick said quietly. "Come here." But as he sat back the nearer edge of the hole began to give way. He and Dan scrambled back a few feet to more solid ground.

It wasn't a deep hole, barely two feet at most and now half filled-in by the dirt. It was evident, though, that it had originally been a pit, covered over by a piece of corrugated tin and, over that, at most a foot of soil. What protruded now above the sifting surface was piece of blue cloth, a dark floral print with a collar once intended to be white. Not as white anymore as the jaw bone, partly unhinged from the empty-socketed skull.

"Oh, dear," Aunt Zora said, close enough to see what was now exposed. Mark reached forward, too late. "Oh dear," she repeated, already down on her knees with the surprising grace of a gardener.

"May, look here," Zora said softly. She'd plucked something up from the dirt.

Mark finally found his voice. "It's a crime scene, Aunt Zora."

Hardcastle had abandoned Gerry and was moving in quickly, though not quickly enough. "I think we need to step back here, leave everything as it is," he said sternly.

Mark was trying to get Zora away without collapsing the edge of the grave any further. Gerry sat where he'd landed, with an increasingly horrified look on his face.

"We'd better give that sheriff a call," Hardcastle said, lending Mark a hand with Zora.

Dan shook himself loose from a long, hard stare at the remains. "Phone's not hooked up yet," he said. "I'll have to drive over there." Then he looked up sharply. "Don't let Lisa come out here."

He needn't have worried; May and Zora had drawn off into the doorway, huddled together in close discussion. When Lisa's questioning holler was heard from the porch they both scurried off.

"Go," Mark said. Then he turned to the judge and said, "You and Gerry take a break. I can stay out here and do the chain of evidence duty."

"We're just Joe Citizens here, kiddo, not officers of the court, and that body looks like it was put there before the barn went up. That'd be," he scratched his head, "'bout fifty years, at least. I think we can wait for the sheriff inside."

Gerry had finally gotten to his feet. He was giving their grisly find a wide berth while never quite taking his eyes off them. Hearing his brother's plan, he now nodded in agreement. "Oughta go inside and reassure the ladies, maybe have a sandwich or two. Wouldn't want them to have gone to all that trouble for nothing."

Milt frowned at his brother in barely concealed disgust but, in the end, turned and followed him out. Mark hesitated only a moment longer, taking one last look at the remains. He shivered slightly and hurried to catch up with the others.

00000

In the kitchen, among the half-unpacked boxes, the ladies were in close council. The plate piled high with quartered sandwiches had been abandoned on the counter, along with a pitcher of sweet tea, another of lemonade, and a plate of cookies. Gerry snagged something with ham and cheese on it and settled himself on one of the larger boxes. Lisa looked as though she'd already gotten the gist of the developments from the aunts and now turned to the judge.

"What's going to happen?" she asked quietly.

"Well," Hardcastle leaned against the counter, gazing out the window toward the barn, "That sheriff will show up, and if he's got any sense, he'll call in the state troopers—they'll have a better forensic team and a data bank, and a decent chance of at least IDing the body."

What ought to have been a moment of reverent silence for the deceased was broken abruptly by Aunt Zora.

"But Milton, dear, we already know who the poor girl was."

Milton dear frowned. "Aunt Zora," he said with a sigh, "people kinda look alike once they've been dead that long."

"But there's this," Zora put something small and rounded lying on the top of the kitchen table. It rolled in a small semicircle, then rocked once and fell still.

Hardcastle stepped over, warily eyeing the object without touching it. It was a small frosted-glass button with a floral pattern on the flattened side.

"That's evidence," he said sternly.

"It most certainly _is_," Zora nodded.

Her nephew sighed again wearily. "And you mean to tell me that you can identify that woman out there from a button?"

This was answered with an even more emphatic nod. "Of course I can." Zora settled back into her chair slightly. "You know your uncle and I had a bad spell with the haberdashery trade during the Depression."

If by 'spell' one meant 'decade', Hardcastle knew it well. He nodded back resignedly. This had the feel of a long tale.

"And when the war started, and the price of corn started going up and people finally had some cash in their pockets, well, all the young men were in uniform. Old men don't buy many new clothes," she added in a quiet aside to Lisa. "That's when I told Harry he ought to go do his duty. He ended up a quartermaster at Pine Bluff. If there was one thing Harry knew, it was wool. No Arkansas boy ever went off in a shoddy uniform." She smiled in recollected satisfaction.

"The button?" Mark prodded gently.

Zora's smile faded. She reached for the button, and held it gently by the shank. "We decided that I'd run the shop while he was away—ladies' wear. Dresses, hats, even trousers."

"For war work," May explained. "We had a factory right here in Worden. We made canvas sacks for parachutes. But after-hours the young ladies still liked their dresses—"

"And I did my utmost to make sure we had the best selection outside of Little Rock," Zora added. "May helped me pick them out, that first batch."

"This button came from one of _those_ dresses?" Hardcastle said doubtfully and, at Zora's nod he added and even more doubtful, "Are you sure?"

"The dress was blue silk, and the buttons were hand-painted, from Paris," Zora said quietly. "There wasn't another one like it for five years after that. No silk, and most certainly no buttons from France. It was the prettiest dress in the shop."

"Who'd you sell it to?" the judge asked, conceding all issues of memory.

Zora cast one quick, anxious glance at May and then lowered her voice just slightly. "Bessie Mae Deveroe."

The judge frowned slightly. Gerry was mouthing the name, then his eyes widened slightly. "A little after your time, Milt. You were off in California." He made a quick clicking sound. "She was quite a looker," he said, then he blanched.

"Not any more," the judge said flatly.

"We all thought she'd run off with . . ." Zora frowned and cast an inquiring look in May's direction.

"I think it was the one of the Hanesley boys," May said. "Stanley. That's what everyone said, anyway. He went off on account of the war and she followed him."

"Only she didn't." Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "She never left Worden."

May sighed. "All those years and no one even looking for her."

"That Hanesley kid," Hardcastle said, "did he ever come home?"

"No," Zora said. "But not killed as far as I ever heard. Lots of boys didn't come home."

"How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm, once they've seen Par-ree," Gerry sang, suddenly boisterous.

After a moment of silent disapproval all around, Zora sniffed, "I don't know about Paris. Lots of boys settled in Little Rock, after it was over. Some of them went to Fayetteville—used their GI Bill money, got some schooling."

"There was nothing _unusual_ about a boy not coming home," May seconded. "You never came home, Milton."

Into this pondering piped Lisa. "The barn . . ." She flushed suddenly and then dropped her gaze and shook her head. "Sorry. That poor woman's dead and all. I must sound hard. But we need to get the wood up to that buyer quick, while the building season is still on. We need that money for the mortgage."

"Shouldn't be too much problem with that," Hardcastle assured, but it was after just enough hesitation to lend some doubt to what he was saying.

"Might be a few days," Mark added cautiously. "It's still a crime scene."

Though that was true, the return of Dan in his truck, followed by the sheriff's sedan, was not heralded by any sirens. Undoubtedly Dan had explained the nature of their grim find. The folks in the kitchen roused themselves from their contemplative gloom and formed a greeting party that filed out onto the porch.

Sheriff Jackson was out of his vehicle standing with Dan and giving the ramshackle barn a jaundiced look. When the others approached he nodded a greeting, "Miss May, Miss Zora." Then his glance shifted to Mark and his expression took on an even deeper layer of disapproval. "You too, huh?"

His gaze went back to Dan's equally battered face. "I'm glad you folks think at least a _body's_ worth letting the authorities in on."

Dan reddened between the bruises and gestured to the barn with one hand. "'s up here."

Jackson trudged up the slight slope, the rest following. He jerked his chin sideways with a look over his shoulder and started to say, "You folks might want to stay out—" then he shook his head sharply, once. "Never mind," he muttered.

The relative dimness of the interior was sliced through by shafts of sunlight, one of which now fell directly on the point of interest. The sheriff stood there, hands on hips, then went to one knee for a closer look, still touching nothing.

"It's Bessie Mae Deveroe," Zora said firmly. "You'd be too young to remember her."

Jackson broke his intent gaze away from the skeletal face still half buried in the loose dirt. "You _knew _her?"

"Not socially," May said. "She was younger than us by a few years."

"But you _recognize_ her?"

Zora sighed and explained. Jackson had gotten back to his feet somewhere around the bit about Harry's assignment to the supply corp. He kept his mouth shut though, all the way through. Mark sensed the man had some prior experience with the Hardcastle sisters.

"So you see," Zora concluded with a nod in the direction of the deceased, it's Bessie May, poor dear."

"Circumstantial," the judge muttered under his breath.

"It's her," May said with quiet certainty. "Unless you can think of a reason why someone _else_ might have snuck out and gotten herself murdered in Bessie's best dress."

The sheriff, hands on hips, said nothing to commit himself either way only, "You folks'll need to stay out of here. I'll get the state police to send in their team." He glanced at his watch. "Might take'em a couple hours to get somebody down here." He looked around. "We can shut the door; don't want no animals getting in."

Daniel said nothing, merely nodding solemnly.

00000

With no further work possible on the barn, the grim party had broken up soon after. To Mark's surprise, the aunts seemed almost eager to leave the scene of the distant crime. Hardcastle was no less itchy to haul out of there. Only Gerald, astonishingly, was lingering. Maybe that wasn't such an astonishment; there was still most of a platter of sandwiches in the Postgates' kitchen. Nearly everyone else seemed to be off their feed.

One further representative of the official investigation had shown up before they left and that was one of Jackson's deputies. The man looked to be barely out of high school and seemed almost nervous as he wandered into the barn. He only spent a few minutes inside and then retired to his car to stand his watch sitting down. He tipped his hat to Mark and the Hardcastles as they departed.

Getting into the Studebaker, Gerald offered one more time to stay behind and help keep an eye on things.

"Looks like we already got someone to do that." Hardcastle nodded grumpily in the direction of the deputy, then let out a sigh. "Doesn't look like they're pulling out all the stops on this one, huh?"

"What do you expect, Judge?" Mark said quietly. "Most of the people who'll be doing the investigating are gonna think this is ancient history. Heck, I wasn't even born when she died."

"You think it's too long ago to matter?"

"No," Mark shook his head. "And I'm wondering if there's some other folks out there who are getting nervous, too."

"See, I toldja you should have made a report last night."

"Well, the sheriff sure didn't seem too interested in our run-in, and that was _after_ we threw in a body for good measure."

Mark heard a sniff of disapproval slip out of Aunt May, who reached forward and patted him on the shoulder.

00000

They pulled up to the house. Mark was aware that he was under a certain amount of scrutiny from at least three of his fellow passengers as they climbed out of the cramped car. He felt almost as stiff as he'd been that morning and his mood had taken a further downward shift from the morning's discovery.

"You ought to lie down for a while," Aunt May said sternly. "You're looking peaked."

He wasn't sure about the peaked part—he thought he'd probably have to look that up—but he did know he was dog tired.

"Okay," he gave in gracefully. "But don't let me sleep through any meals," he said. It was a vain attempt at humor but at least it got a snort from the judge, who hadn't voiced any objection to him taking it easy, either.

Mark trudged up the stairs to the first room on the right, not bothering with much more than doffing his shoes and loosening his belt. He sank down, ignoring the nagging headache and the distant sounds of people moving about downstairs. He thought very briefly about someone waiting patiently for nearly fifty years to be discovered, and then wondered what the hell could be done about it after all that time.

_Justice delayed is justice denied._, he thought as he turned on his side and finally closed his eyes.

He awoke to a shift in the sunlight—mid afternoon by the looks of things. At least it felt as though some time had passed. He thought it might just have been the natural end to a nap, but then he heard voices again and realized that was what had penetrated through the fog.

He struggled upright, dragged his fingers through his hair, and slipped his feet back into his shoes—2:45 p.m. by his wristwatch. He got to his feet, leaned against the dresser for a moment, and then headed for the doorway and the stairwell.

The voices were more audible now. One was Aunt May's and the other also was a woman's, but sounded younger.

"Chief Sheridan couldn't tell me much, but that nephew of yours, the judge—"

"Milton."

"Yes . . . he was there."

Mark was in the kitchen doorway, now, and the conversation halted. The other woman was no one he'd seen before. She was well into middle age but had none of the matronly look about her. Her hair was cut short, in a flattering but business-like style, and if there was any gray there, it had been subdued through the miracle of modern chemistry.

Aunt May nodded to him as he entered. "Evelyn, this is my nephew, Mark . . . Mark, dear, this is Evelyn Eisley, from the bank."

All became suddenly clear, or at least a little less murky. Mark gave her a properly serious smile and a quick shake of her outstretched hand. That seemed to pretty much do it for him and the loan officer. Her attention was immediately back on May.

"So I thought—you being such good friends with the Postgates—you might know what's going on out there."

Mark watched May purse her lips just fractionally. This was all it took for Ms. Eisley to drop, in a most unbusinesslike way, into the nearest chair.

"Oh, damn," she didn't even blush over the explicative, "I _knew_ it. The rumor's already all over town. They say there's a corpse out there. This is _terrible_."

The words were right but Mark thought the meaning was a little off. He decided to test the waters slightly. "It didn't happen recently," he said quietly.

Evelyn turned to him sharply. "Doesn't matter _when_ it happened. That isn't enough land for a modern working farm. The only reason I signed off on that mortgage was that they had a plan to generate income by converting it into a bed and breakfast. _Bodies_," she added emphatically, "are very bad for business."

"There's just the one," May said, with very little solicitude.

Ms. Eisley threw her hands up slightly. "I'll never hear the end of it from dad."

Mark quirked one eyebrow.

"He warned me on this one. Out-of-towners with practically no financial history." She shook her head. "He said I shouldn't let you two badger me into something I'd regret."

May sat up a little straighter and said, "It was a good decision. Your father is the one doing the badgering. He needs to remember he retired from that bank five years ago. _You're_ the loan director, now."

"And I'd like to think I could be the president one of these days," Eisley said with a hard-edged sigh, "just like dear old dad was, but you're only as good as your last approval, and if this property winds up back the bank's hands, my chances are cooked."

She might have sounded a little callused, but Mark felt a strange kinship with the woman. And he understood the concept of a stigmatized property from ongoing personal experience—a gift from his very own 'dear old dad'. He tried to smile sympathetically.

"I'll have to go out there," she said, preoccupied with her own thoughts. "I need to see what's going on."

She was up, on her feet, looking determined. There were no farewell handshakes. She barely ducked her chin at them as she headed for the door.

"Nice meeting you," Mark said as it swung shut. Then he looked around and finally turned to Aunt May. "Where is everybody?"

"Oh," May gave an offhanded shrug, "Milt's down at Chief Sheridan's—but you heard that already."

Mark nodded suspiciously. "And Aunt Zora?"

"She had something to return to the library, I believe," May said with an air of almost elaborate vagueness.

Mark accepted it at face value. He couldn't expect the aunts to behave when there was a corpse lying about, but at least the town library seemed like a safe outlet for research. Then he frowned, listening hard—no snoring from the front room.

"And Gerald?"

This time May looked truly puzzled. "He received a phone call." She paused thoughtfully, as though she were considering the benefit of having a second phone for purposes of eavesdropping. She let out a regretful sigh that only hardened Mark's impression. "He seemed a little upset. He's gone out for a walk." She looked up at the kitchen clock. "It's been nearly forty-five minutes."

Mark felt both eyebrows rising. Gerald had definitely trumped the other two in the strange behavior department. Anything beyond a trip to the two dollar window between races constituted a death march for him.

"He didn't say anything, huh?"

May shook her head.

"You want me to maybe see if I can find him?"

May cocked her head for a moment and then said, "No . . . best to let people work these things out for themselves." Then she shook her head sadly. "And he had told me he wasn't going to borrow any more money from those nasty men."

Mark had met one of Gerald's nastier bankers a few years back, but just this once he wished that were the problem. He said nothing to Aunt May about his preferences.

"But you must be hungry," she said with sudden brightness, putting all thoughts of murder and gambling debts aside for the really important matters. "Sit down and I'll get you something."

00000

"Something" turned out to be chicken salad on whole wheat, a double helping of mustard potato salad and a side order of Aunt May's own homemade coleslaw, which had taken Best in Show at the county fair three years running. Mark finally had to leave the table in self-defense, having been threatened with Sally Lunn cake and whipped cream.

"I really should take a look around for Gerald, don'tcha think?" he said, slightly amazed at the way lunch with the Hardcastle aunts could temporarily drive out all other concerns.

May nodded distractedly, as though the process of feeding one of her men-folk had served much the same purpose for her.

"He used to go down by the crick," she said quietly, "when he had any thinking to do."

Mark hovered over that idea for a moment, trying to imagine Gerry doing any serious thinking.

"Oh," May smiled narrowly," it was mostly figuring out how to avoid paying the piper."

"Ahh," Mark said, and then, with a sharp nod, "the creek it is."

00000

It was a pleasantly warm afternoon, with the cast of gold from the trees. Mark knew the way from previous visits, and found himself more than half-hoping that he'd just get to enjoy the walk by himself.

But, no, he was close enough to see the sparkle of water between the trees when he heard the first of several plopping sounds, spaced at irregular intervals. He stooped and picked up a flattened rock of his own—having perfected this skill some time back—and wended off to the right, in the direction he'd heard it coming from.

It was Gerry, of course, and he'd found a perch on a broad boulder near a turn in the creek. The pooling water, above the narrow passage, received another cast stone—three skips before the final plunge.

_Not bad_, Mark thought. The technique was oddly familiar: a little dip of the shoulder and an almost horizontal cast. He said nothing, though he was making no attempt to sneak up on the man. Gerald heard him and turned, looking startled for a moment but then acknowledging him with a simple nod as he turned back to the creek.

Mark studied the distance. "Betcha I can skip one all the way across."

Gerry didn't bite, but he did glance over at him again, raising one eyebrow.

Mark let fly, and the fourth plop ended just inches from the farther shore.

"Not bad," Gerry said, picking up a likely rock and flinging it. This time the fifth hop fetched up on the opposite bank. "To bad we didn't have any money on it," he said regretfully, and then, after a pause, "You know that's the one thing I can do better than Milt."

Mark knew the list on the other side was discouragingly long. Now it looked like accepting parental responsibilities was going to be tacked on the end of it.

"You just out walking around?" Gerry asked cautiously. "Or were you looking for me?"

"Aunt May sent me," Mark lied, cheerfully pushing the blame off on someone who wasn't there to contradict him. "She said you'd been gone a long time."

Gerry shrugged. "Just took a walk. It's good exercise, ya know?" Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "There wasn't anybody else up there looking for me?"

"No," Mark said innocently. "Milt's still off talking to the police chief and Aunt Zora's catching up on her reading at the library."

The man snorted, at least temporarily regaining his equilibrium, then swiftly subsided into nervous gloom again. Mark resisted the urge to tell him to just spit it out and get it over with. But Gerry obviously wasn't in the mood for confessions. Whatever further news he'd received this afternoon, it hadn't stirred him to any more action than floating rocks on the water.

"Fall," Mark said contemplatively, "_again_." He shook his head slightly, not even bothering to look at the other man. "It always seems like the end of the year to me. You don't notice it so much out in California, but anytime I'm somewhere else—someplace where they _have_ seasons—it always reminds me of how fast time goes by. You know it's seven years this September since I hooked up with your brother?"

He cast a quick glance to the side--this random fact hadn't produced much response from Gerald. He was still staring at the water. Mark squinted back at the water himself. He wasn't sure that he wanted to talk about any of this to Gerry.

_One last try_.

"It's just surprising how fast it goes by. You think you're going to have all the time in the world—get married, settle down, maybe have a family. I always thought maybe I'd have kids someday—a son. Now I don't know—"

Gerald turned toward him, suddenly shaken loose from his reverie. "Come on, you're still a kid yourself; you're what, thirty?"

"Thirty-six."

"See? That's plenty young." He slapped him on the knee. "You'll be fine. You'll find some cute young thing and—bingo—next thing you know there's a bun in the oven and you're buying cigars."

Gerry was smiling now. There might have been an edge to it, but in the process of handing out avuncular advice his gloom had nearly passed, and with it any hope of revelation. He was clambering up now.

"Guess we better head back before Aunt May has a conniption fit." He dusted his hands off on his pants. "She was making a cake while you were snoozing. Wouldn't want her to think we didn't appreciate the effort."

With that he was off, striding through the grove of trees that were clustered down near the side of the stream, his hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets. Mark frowned for a moment and then hustled to catch up with him, still not certain how he'd lost his grip on the situation.

00000

The Studebaker was in the drive and Zora's and May's voices could be heard, entwined in murmured conversation, as the two men entered through the side door. Whatever they were talking about, the discussion came to a halt as the door swung open on not quite silent hinges—though there wasn't an iota of guilt on either woman's face by the time Mark and Gerald arrived in the kitchen.

"No overdue fines, I hope," Mark said innocently.

Zora answered that with only a knowing smile. May turned back to the stove and the pot of split pea soup she'd been fussing over earlier that afternoon. Zora cast one disapproving eye on Gerald, who suddenly thought of somewhere else he had to be and vacated the kitchen without even hinting after the cake.

"Daniel and Lisa are coming over," Zora said. "We thought it would be a good thing to get their minds off their troubles."

"And they can tell us all about the investigation," May added.

Mark was nodding, and even wondering if there was time for a slice of the Sally Lunn, when he heard the front door. No knocks or rings, so it had to be Hardcastle, a supposition that was supported a moment later by the man's own voice.

"We're in the kitchen, dear," May said, giving the pot one last stir and then turning the heat down low.

He stepped in, sniffing the air like a man who'd worked up an appetite and smiling broadly in the direction of the soup pot. "Hey, my favorite."

Mark was pretty sure that when it came to the aunt's cooking, Hardcastle didn't play favorites. His current attraction seemed more the product of his mood, which was unnaturally cheery, like a man who might be embarrassed to admit he enjoyed poking around in old police files.

"How was your visit with Chief Sheridan?" May asked pointedly.

"Interesting . . . real interesting. Elizabeth Mae Deveroe isn't in anybody's data bank, but Stan Hanesley is still with us—honorable discharge from the army in 1946, made it to corporal. Had a run-in with the law in the fifties—assault. Looks like the charges where dismissed when the witness didn't show up."

"It wasn't here in Worden," Zora said firmly.

"Nope, Little Rock," Hardcastle replied. "Not exactly Paree, but I guess he decided to stay in the big city after he got out of the service."

Mark raised one eyebrow. "Still there?"

"Close enough." Hardcastle nodded. "Got an address and everything."

Further conversation was interrupted by more sounds at the front door. This time it was a knock and Zora hastened to it. She returned a moment later leading the Postgates. Billy was fussy and his parents looked weary.

"Sit," May admonished. "You all look done-in. I made soup—it's sustaining."

Chairs were being pulled out and guests seated. Mark turned to the cupboards for bowls and plates and Aunt Zora got things arranged on the table. It was only a few moments before everything was sorted out.

"Where's Gerald?" Zora frowned. "I've never known him to be late for May's split-pea supper."

"He was outside," Dan said quietly, "talking to a woman."

Mark stiffened slightly and said, "I'll go get him," before anyone else could head to the window for a look-see. "Back in a sec." He was already on his feet, and closest to the door.

He heaved a sigh of relief as he slipped out the front door with no one else following him. He could see Gerald's bulky form, hunched over the driver's side window of a dark-colored vehicle which was parked alongside the curb. Under other circumstances he might have been more wary. Dark sedans visiting Gerald sometimes held loan sharks and their goons.

This time, though, the driver was a redhead. He couldn't make out much more about her age or attitude in the diminishing twilight. As he strolled closer, poised to announce himself, the woman glanced in his direction. Gerry must have picked up on that.

He straightened suddenly and said one last thing to his visitor. She pulled away. There wasn't precisely a screech of tires, but she hadn't wasted any time.

Mark shook his head once and then closed the remaining space between them. "Soup's on," he said brusquely.

He got barely a nod from Gerald, who turned sharply. "Just somebody I know," he heard the man mutter as he trudged by, heading for the house.

Mark hustled, falling into step alongside him. "She got a name?" he asked quietly. They were almost back to the porch.

Gerald grunted a weary affirmative and then said, "Sheila . . . she's not from around here," he added, unnecessarily.

They'd arrived at the front door. Mark pulled it open and let the reluctant-appearing Gerald enter first. Voices could be heard from the kitchen. It was Dan, with Lisa chiming in from time to time.

"—they left that yellow tape across the doors, though. We asked 'em if they'd be coming back, and when we could go in there. They couldn't say. Then they packed up their truck and left." Dan checked his watch. "That was about an hour ago."

Hardcastle grunted and shook his head. "It's a very cold case. They're hard to crack and there's no particular rush. That's a bad combination."

"So what happens now?" Lisa asked.

"My guess is they'll sort through the bits back in the state lab. Just the preliminary report will take 'em a week or two. Then the investigators will get that, and plug in whatever else they've got—which won't be much unless they can make some sort of formal ID. When they think they've done all they can, they'll file it and forget it."

"A week or two?" Lisa turned to Dan. "That's too long, isn't it?"

He nodded. "They wanted that wood by the end of this week. If we don't get back at it soon—"

"There's one other possibility," Hardcastle said sharply "The case gets solved. Or at least we give them a good push in the right direction."

"You think if they knew about this Hanesley guy?" Mark asked. "You're gonna tell the state investigators about him?"

"Well, I've got to admit, it's a leap of faith right now, without even a preliminary ID on the victim."

Zora and May stiffened. Hardcastle quickly amended, "No _official_ preliminary ID—nobody in Little Rock knows Bessie Mae from Adam's off-ox and I don't think they're going to be willing to rely on a fifty-year-old button."

"So we're going to check out Hanesley ourselves?" Mark inquired mildly.

Dan perked up considerably. "You'd do that?"

"Wait a minute," Hardcastle said, holding one palm up, mostly in Mark's direction. "This isn't going to take a committee or nothing. I just figured I'd run up there tomorrow, have a chat with the investigative division, drop in at the ME's office, and then maybe stop by Hanesley's place and sound things out a little."

"You're going to ask him where he was on the night of 1941, huh?" Mark shook his head. "Anyway, _we're_ going. The last time this guy was in trouble with the law, a witness disappeared."

"Heck, that could've been anything—a bar fight with a traveling salesman."

"I think Mark is right," Zora said firmly, "safety in numbers."

Mark jerked his head toward her and flashed a quick, nervous smile. "But we don't _all_ need to go."

"Of course not, dear," May said, passing two more bowls of soup down to him and Gerald. "I'm sure Daniel and Lisa have more moving in to do."

"And what about you two?" Hardcastle asked suspiciously.

May beamed cheerfully. "Zora and I will just catch up on our reading."


	3. Chapter 3

**Family Secrets**

**Part 3**

They departed early the next morning in the Studebaker with Mark behind the wheel. The aunts had been up as well, seeing them off with a hearty breakfast and plenty of black coffee.

Mark thought the coffee had been a good idea. He hadn't slept all that well the night before, spending a little of it thinking about the Postgates' mystery, but more, by far, contemplating the fix Gerald had gotten himself into. His sluggish start was enough to get Hardcastle's attention.

"You sure you don't want me to drive?" he offered for the third time when they'd barely cleared the driveway and were still within sight of the waving women on the front porch.

"I'm fine," Mark said, stubbornly insistent.

"Well, you don't _look_ fine . . . and what was all that tossing and turning last night?"

Mark gave that a single indignant sniff and said, "Some of us don't sleep through murder investigations all that well . . . and if you were lying there listening to me, maybe you're one of them, too."

"Nah . . ." Hardcastle's protest trailed off into a frown.

Mark caught it in a quick sideward glance. It boded a change of topic.

"Who was that woman Gerald was talking to out front of the house yesterday?"

Mark stiffened a little, then made a conscious effort to relax.

"Dunno," he said quite honestly. "Somebody in a sedan. She was driving off when I came out to get him."

He was acutely aware that for him to call any car merely "a sedan" was evasion of the highest order. It'd been a midnight blue '84 Lincoln Continental. He'd been too busy looking at the woman driving it to get the plates, though.

Hardcastle hmmphed at his vagueness.

"Maybe she was asking for directions," Mark offered, though the idea of Gerald rushing out to give instructions to a lost motorist was patently absurd.

"He's in some kinda trouble," the judge said bluntly and then, after only a moment of thought, "You sure it was a woman? I never heard of a woman in that line of work."

Mark thought it depended on what kind of work he was referring to, but loan sharks and bookies . . . no. He kept his mouth shut except to say, "He hasn't said anything to me."

Hardcastle grumbled, "I suppose we'll hear about it soon enough."

00000

The rest of the drive was uneventful. Their first stop was the state police headquarters. The judge still knew people from his escapade six years earlier, uncovering corruption and murder in Clarence. Mark thought Hardcase must have a mental file box that rivaled a Rolodex. He was barely in the door when he started making inquiries about a half-dozen guys who been involved in that case. Luckily, one of those had moved up in rank and was a lieutenant in the criminal investigations division. There were ushered into his office with no undue delay.

"Well, if it isn't the crazy judge," Lieutenant Massie said with a smile that belied the words. He was on his feet and coming around his desk with an outstretched hand. "Can't believe you're still willing to come back after that last time." He was shaking his head as well as shaking hands. "It's not just anybody who can go from favorite son to pariah in one visit home."

Mark cringed and avoided looking at the pariah. This whole subject was something Hardcastle preferred not being reminded of. It was with good reason that their visits back to his home state were invariably based in Worden and not the neighboring community of Clarence. But he figured the judge would stay civil with the lieutenant for as long as necessary to get to the bottom of the Postgates' problem.

He wasn't mistaken. Hardcastle was all jovial bonhomie in response to Massie's greeting; it would have taken a real expert to hear the irritated undertones. Then there was the briefest pause before he switched gears and dropped into a more sober mien.

"That murdered woman—the one down in Worden . . ." Hardcastle held up while the lieutenant turned back toward his desk and shuffled though some papers.

"You involved in that, _too_?" Massie said quietly while he searched. He finally pulled something out of a stack he was rifling through. "Here it is. Knew I'd just seen it. Came in late yesterday."

He gave the sheet a quick scan then looked up at them with a puzzled expression. "The preliminary assessment is that those remains have been down there for a helluva long time. Hell, we don't even know who the victim _is_, just yet."

"Elizabeth Deveroe," Hardcastle said grimly, "And it's been about fifty years."

"What's that ID based on?"

Hardcastle looked sharply toward McCormick, then drew his gaze back to Massie and said, unwaveringly, "Circumstantial, I admit. An item found on the body which was known to have belonged to Deveroe."

Massie was studying the sheet again and frowning.

"A very small item." Hardcastle sighed and finally threw in the towel. "It's a button."

The lieutenant broke off reading and went back to staring. "A fifty-year-old _button_?"

"Look, Deveroe reportedly left Worden in 1941, only it looks now like she never got any further than a farm on the outskirts of town. How hard will it be to nail this thing down?"

Massie cleared his throat. It sounded like the prelude to an apology. "You know the lab's running three months behind on everything but rush jobs—and damn near everything _is _a rush job."

"We might have some leads for you."

One of Massie's eyebrows went up. "You know who might've done this? Is your suspect even still _alive_?"

"The rest of this is just hearsay," Hardcastle admitted. "She was supposed to have hooked up with a guy named Stanley Hanesley."

"Hearsay is right," Massie muttered. "Look, Judge, I'll admit you've got one helluva track record for sniffing out dirt, but this is a murder that happened a half-century ago. Can't you maybe just let the crime lab guys have a crack at it? If there's anything there that points a finger at someone, the investigators'll follow up on it"

Hardcastle shook his head impatiently. "There's a couple of real nice kids who just bought the property the body was found on—that's the reason it was found, see?"

Massie nodded.

"And they just want to get on with things. They don't have three months to wait on your lab guys."

"The crime scene? I'll give my boys a call. They can wrap that part up in a couple of days, I'm sure."

"That'll be a help," Hardcastle agreed, "but, see, having a body found there, and it being a big mystery and all, well that's not going do these two kids any good at all. They were planning on starting a little bed and breakfast place not a hundred feet from where the remains were found. What they really need is for this all to be settled—no mystery at all. Everything cut and dried and _done_."

"Well, I'm not sure I can promise you that."

"Okay," Hardcastle flashed a defiant eye, "just wanted to give you first crack at it, that's all."

Massie hooked a thumb in Mark's direction. "You're not going to sic your partner here on anything that's locked up in a government office, are you?" He'd apparently heard the entire story of the Clarence misadventure, even the part that had been glossed over in the official report.

"No," Hardcastle smiled wryly, "not that it turned out all that bad the last time."

"Okay, then," Massie said resignedly, "I don't suppose I can do much about a citizen who's taking an interest in local history.

With that they took their leave. Mark said nothing until they'd reached the outside steps of the building, where he paused and took the older man by the elbow, pulling him to a halt as well.

"It helped, huh? Me stealing those land bids back in Clarence."

"Don't let it go to your head, kiddo. It also almost got us both killed."

"And when did _that_ start being a consideration in the pursuit of justice?"

Hardcastle only gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. Mark followed him down the rest of the steps and then took the lead heading to the car.

"We're gonna go see this Hanesley guy, huh?" he said over his shoulder.

"You heard me up there," the judge protested defensively. "I gave 'em a fair chance to take the job off my hands."

Mark considered that for a moment and then nodded. "But you really think settling the case will help Dan and Lisa get their plans back on track?"

"Won't hurt, will it?"

"I suppose not," Mark said consideringly. "For a minute up there, though, I was pretty sure you were seeing one more file that wasn't getting closed out—another guy slipping though a loophole."

"Might be a little of that, too," Hardcastle admitted.

Mark grinned wryly. "Good, I thought maybe you were losing your touch."

Then he turned and unlocked the door of the Studebaker, leaving the judge staring in surprise behind him.

00000

Stan Hanesley's address wasn't in Little Rock proper, but on a back road in an unincorporated area part of the county. _So much for gay Paree_, Mark thought. Stan's circumstances looked much less worldly. There was an old Buick parked alongside the off-white trailer, and a rusty barrel a safe distance out for burning trash. The knee-high picket fencing that surrounded the remains of his garden had given way in places. Mark looked at it all dubiously for a moment, then turned to close the door of the Studebaker.

Hardcastle was already out. He had one foot on the stoop and his hand poised to knock when the door edged open and a voice—old but clear—asked, "Who are ya?"

_He's got a shotgun in there._ It was one of those deductions that spring from hard-won experience and basic instinct, and Mark would have bet cash money on it. But before he had a chance to act on his assumption—or even decide what he should do—Hardcastle had smiled and introduced himself.

It might have been the part about Clarence High—or the mention of Luzon. Hardcastle apparently had a passing familiarity with Hanesley's former army unit. Mark leaned back against the car, relaxing just slightly and giving the two men some space. He knew when not to crowd the judge.

It was only a matter of a few minutes before Stan slipped back behind the door for a moment. It closed slightly and then opened wider. The outer screen door was pushed open as well and there was a beckoning gesture that seemed to include him. They stepped inside, Mark following behind the judge with only mild misgivings. Once inside he gave a quick look around. The shotgun had apparently been stowed, which wouldn't have been difficult in the clutter.

"Don't mind the mess—wasn't 'specting no company," their host said bluffly. He seemed to glance over at McCormick for the first time, taking in the bruises and then leaning slightly toward Hardcastle. "What happened to your friend?"

"Accident," Mark answered—terse but not unfriendly.

Hanesley gave that a surprisingly understanding nod. He nudged a box to the side with one foot and hobbled into the narrow living area. The three of them together seemed to mostly fill up whatever space wasn't already occupied by his life's detritus but Stan ushered them both to a small dining table, a built-in booth whose seats were upholstered in scabbed red vinyl.

Mark slid in, leaving space for Hardcastle. Hanesley had already turned away and was fetching down three unmatched mugs. Mark got the one from the local Farm and Fleet, Hardcastle's sported a faded American flag. A coffee pot was brandished and the cups were filled.

Mark sat back, willing to listen as the judge spun the conversation from the specific to the general and back again—just an old former neighbor who thought he'd drop by and chew the fat for a bit. No fat to be had back in California—both men agreed about that.

Hanesley joined in, just a little a first but gradually more. Of course it eventually led to a discussion of mutual acquaintances. Hardcastle, being the longer and further gone, was placed in the natural position of inquirer and the list was long. Stan only knew the whereabouts of a couple of folks, and those by hearsay or from the news. He was apparently mostly a loner, had been for a long time.

Hardcastle wasn't deterred by this admission. He went ahead, probing genially for common links and occasionally finding one—a mutually remembered incident, a bit of town lore. From there it was only a short sideways step to a casual question.

"You knew Bessie Deveroe, didn'ja?"

Hanesley froze for a split-second, but when he found his wits again, there was no display of false ignorance.

"Knew her?" he spat, "Hell, I _married _her."

Mark didn't very often have the pleasure of seeing Hardcastle taken by surprise, but this was definitely one of those occasions. The judge mastered it, though, and only let out a fairly ordinary, "You did?"

"Yeah," Hanesley said. There'd only been a moment's hesitation, as though he might be having second thoughts about his forthrightness. Those were quickly overcome—in fact he almost seemed glad to be talking about it, as if it were a long-carried burden that he was glad to be unloading.

"At the start of the war—you remember how it was. Everybody off to do their duty."

Hardcastle nodded.

"And girls," Stan shrugged nervously, "lots of them wanting to do their duty, too. Wartime romance."

The hint of bitterness was back. Maybe "romance" wasn't quite the word Stan had been reaching for. But Mark's gaze was suddenly drawn back to Hardcastle. The man rarely mentioned his own wartime brush with what might have been true love but ended up sidelined by a miscommunication. If he was thinking of it now, it was well-hidden beneath a veneer of simple interest.

Hanesley's eye's had narrowed slightly. "I was working as a farm hand that summer, over on the Kendicott place. Bessie Mae and I had a good time one night. That's all it was, I thought. She knew the draft board was putting us boys in uniform as soon as the winter wheat was cut and stacked—August at the latest."

"But you wound up married?" Hardcastle looked puzzled. Mark understood. It was utterly out of character for the aunts to have misplaced a critical bit of evidence like that.

Hanesley nodded sharply at the judge's question. His expression now included a frown. "She came up to camp a couple maybe three months after I'd been sent there. She told the chaplain she was in a family way. My sergeant got wind of it and the next thing you know the chaplain was doing the pronouncing and I was signing the papers so she'd get my pay when I went overseas. Simple as that."

"And she was—in a family way, I mean."

"Not for long," Hanesley said, looking grim. A couple more months—she was living in town near the camp—by January she was big enough to pop. They had a hospital there for the soldier's families and she had the baby—a girl."

"That's nice," Hardcastle said cautiously.

"Yeah, well, I did my duty by her, fair enough. It looked for a while like I'd be staying right here, in the States. I didn't mind with a wife and baby and all. I won't deny she was a pretty little thing—dark hair and dark eyes. We called her for my momma, 'Pearl'."

Hanesley sighed, staring out the window at the sagging, weather-beaten fence. "Then when she was 'bout a month or so old, she took sick." His voice went hard, his expression hardened. "Real sick—it was the measles, but she had a bad fever and a fit. We took her to the doctor—there was a new one here, just for kids. City boy, real slick." The words were coming faster, now. "He fixed her up, right enough, and then when she was doing better, and I was thanking him, he smiled at me—him and his city-boy smile, smart as a whip. He said I was a good man, to do so well by that child."

Mark realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out now, figuring the worst was over, but somehow knowing it wasn't.

"Pearl was all right, though, right?" he asked quietly.

Hanesley cast a quick sharp glance at him. "Oh, yeah," he said, "right as rain." His voice was hollow, too. "I asked him what he meant, 'cause it was a sure thing he didn't mean nothin' good. He said he could tell by just lookin' that Pearl wasn't my child, on account of her momma and me, we both had one color eyes, and the baby, hers were another."

Mark shot a look at Hardcastle, whose forehead was furrowed. The judge leaned in slightly. "Bessie, her eyes were blue?"

"Blue as cornflowers," Stan said with a harshness that belied the words, as though he were describing the Devil's own mark. "Mine ain't as lively, but they were blue enough back then. He said two blue-eyed folks couldn't have a brown-eyed child. I cussed him out, then and there, but I couldn't stop thinking on it, after that."

Hanesley's blue-gray eyes were flat, his pupils large. Mark thought for a moment that he was going to confess to the murder of Pearl's mother. But, no, the man was settling back into his seat again.

"I had words with Bessie. I told her what I knew. She didn't try and deny it, I'll give her that." He shook his head. "I told her I wanted a divorce—she didn't give me no argument."

"So you divorced her," Hardcastle said doubtfully.

"I woulda, but about a week later—the next time I had leave to go see her—she was gone, her and the kid, too. She musta just took off."

"Where?"

"Hell if I know." Stan took a swig from his coffee cup, swallowed decisively and scrubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. "Good riddance." The words were right but the face didn't quite match—or maybe it was the eyes, still empty and flat.

"Right after that I asked for a transfer to an infantry unit—I was tired of being in the damn rear echelon and I didn't have no reason to stay stateside. Uncle Sam obliged me. That's how I got to see Luzon."

"You never heard from her again?"

Stan shook his head.

Hardcastle sat back again and let out a heavy breath. "That's a helluva story," he said.

Stan shrugged as though it meant nothing to him anymore, one way or the other.

The judge looked down at his watch and then up again, like a man suddenly aware of the passage of time. "Guess we'd better get moving—took enough of your time." He was getting to his feet.

Hanesley seemed startled by his sudden move to depart. Mark was caught by surprise, too. He scooted out of his end of the bench seat, wondering why the big hurry. The judge only paused long enough for a perfunctory farewell and promises that they ought to stay in touch, though Mark had a feeling that their next conversation would be preceded by a Miranda.

Outside, Hardcastle said nothing more as they strode toward the Studebaker. Hanesley stood on the stoop of the trailer. Mark could feel the stare on his back, though when he turned, briefly, to soften the departure with a wave, he saw only bemusement on the man's face.

He had the car in gear and in motion—and them back on the two-lane county rode before he ventured to speak to the tight-lipped man beside him.

"Well, _that_ was interesting. At least we've got a motive now."

Hardcastle heaved a long breath and then muttered, "Lots of motive, but it's a little weak in the method and opportunity departments." He shook his head. "I don't get it. If he _did_ kill her, he'd've never admitted to all that stuff he told us."

"It's been a long time. Maybe he's always wanted to confess. Maybe he felt justified, even. Someone you trust, and then you get the rug yanked out from under you like that—"

He shut his mouth, suddenly realizing he was speaking from personal experience. A different set of circumstances, but being lied to by a woman you were in love with could trigger some ugly thoughts, at least.

"Anyway," he finally said, to break the awkward silence, "what are we going to tell Lieutenant Massie?"

He glanced aside at the judge, who seemed startled by the question and looked as if he hadn't even registered the statement before that.

"Tell him?" he grunted, "We've got less than nothing here. The state lab hasn't even attached a name to the body. Now it looks like the woman in question left Worden after all. _Nope_," he added emphatically, "nothing to report right now. Besides, it didn't look to me like Hanesley was going anywhere."

"Then why did we haul out of there like we were going to a three-alarm fire?"

"Cause I had a sudden itch—I think maybe May and Zora have a line in the water and they can sort some of this out for us."

"So you still think it was her and he's the one?"

Hardcastle furrowed his brow. "What I think is maybe you should get us back to Worden before the library closes."

00000

They didn't quite make it. The Studebaker had many charms, but speed was not among them. It was all right, though, because the judge figured Aunt Zora had probably already checked out most of the good stuff.

Mark pulled into the aunt's driveway a little after five. It was nearly sunset and lights were already visible through the kitchen window. There were smells wafting as soon as they climbed out of the car.

"Chicken," Mark sighed. They'd stopped for a soulless meal of burgers and fries partway between Worden and Little Rock some hours back. He took the steps up to the side door with alacrity. Hardcastle lagged back a bit, seemingly possessed with equal amounts dread and curiosity. They'd discussed it some on the way home, and Mark had elicited a promise that, no matter how many times the aunts referred to the plots of their favorite authors, he would stay calm and open-minded about whatever they'd found.

The smells inside were even more delightful, though Mark was disappointed to see that the process was still underway and dinner was not quite ready.

"We weren't sure when you'd be home," May admonished.

"And we had a little research of our own to do," Zora added with a self-satisfied smile.

"'Bout that," the judge pulled a chair out from the table, half-turning it so he could face them, "anything interesting?"

The coy tilt of Zora's head lasted for a full second before she dropped it, scurried to the place opposite her nephew, and tucked herself into chair. "There _are_ some matters of interest," she said, reaching into the pocket of her apron and extracting a small black leatherette notebook. She leaned forward as she flipped it open in a practiced way.

"The Worden Gazette was most helpful. First, the matter of Mr. Hanesley." She pulled a pencil stub from another pocket and ticked something off. "The Gazette reported on all our boys in the military."

"There was a lovely article about you, Milton," Aunt May interjected. "Of course we already had a copy of that. I pressed it a flyleaf of the Encyclopedia Britannica."

Milton smiled tightly at his elder aunt and turned back to Zora. "What did they say about Stan?"

She glanced down at her notes. "The local draft board had approval to defer the farm boys in '42 until _after_ the wheat was in—all those called up in the spring were ordered to report to the recruiting board on July the twenty-fifth."

"There was a send-off. I remember it," May added solemnly.

Zora nodded her agreement. "That was only the third batch and most of them had just finished high school that spring. Their names are listed in the Gazette—Stanley was one of them."

"Okay, so he left her for training in July of '42. What else you got on him?"

"He went for overseas duty in March of the following year," Zora said. "It was right there on page five. There was a regular column called 'Blue Star Notes'."

"There was something else of interest, two weeks later," May said breathlessly. "We didn't remember it until Zora ran across it."

"On April first, there was a terrible wind storm. Several trees were reported toppled, including an old black oak on the Kendicott place. It hit the barn and collapsed it."

Hardcastle frowned.

"The _old_ barn, from just after the Civil War" May elaborated. "It had fallen into disrepair. That tree just finished it off."

"Did it have a threshing floor?"

"Now how would we remember something like that, Milton?" Aunt Zora said archly.

"Doesn't matter," Hardcastle muttered. "Don't see how he could have gotten her under there without anyone noticing, and he couldn't have done it between the old barn being hauled off and the new one built, because he was already halfway to the South Pacific by then."

"That was our thought as well," May sighed. "Besides," she straightened up slightly, "we were fairly certain, right from the start, that it wasn't Mr. Hanesley."

"Why'd you figure?"

"Well," Zora shrugged, "you know he was by far the most likely suspect."

"Of course," Hardcastle said wearily, "there's that." He turned to Mark. "I dunno, looks like he's not the most likely suspect anymore."

"So does that make him a suspect again?" Mark inquired mildly. "Maybe he got someone to do it for him."

"Murder, Inc., here in Worden?" Hardcastle shook his head. "That's a little far-fetched."

Zora drew herself up, tucking her notebook back in her apron pocket. "Company will be here soon."

"My, yes," May glanced over at the wall clock. "Dan and Lisa should be arriving any minute now. You can tell all of us about your day over dinner," she patted Milt on the arm, then headed for the stove. "It's roast chicken with that cornbread stuffing Mark likes so much."

Mark wasn't sure even the cornbread stuffing was going to go down well with a recital of their non-productive day. He frowned and leaned a little in his chair, taking in a better sightline to the front room.

"Where's Gerry?" he asked.

Zora sniffed. "He said he had an errand to run."

"That was right about when the beans needed snapping," May added. "We haven't seen hide or hair of him since."

That sounded typical, and not particularly ominous. "How far could he have could he have gone?" Mark speculated idly. "He didn't have a car, and we came through town—we didn't see him."

"He didn't head toward town," Zora said with a flat certainty. "He went toward the creek."

"_Errands_," May tsked. "Gerald's been behaving a bit peculiarly lately, if you ask me."

"Even for him," Zora assented.

_So much for sneaking anything past them. _Mark suppressed his sigh and silently vowed, for the umpteenth time, never to try it himself. He looked aside at the judge, who seemed lost in thought and ignoring the recent turn in the conversation.

"Well," Mark got to his feet, "as long as the beans are already snapped and everything's under control here, I'm pretty sure I know where he's hanging out. I could use a walk."

"You should hurry, then. Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour," May gave him a one-handed shooing motion.

Mark nodded and departed, stepping out into the last angled light of the afternoon. He followed the now-familiar path to the creek and once again heard the syncopated plops of stone on water.

"No wonder you're good at it," he said casually.

"Huh?" Gerry jumped and glanced sharply over his shoulder.

"You get a lot of practice." Mark gestured toward the rippled water.

Gerry stuck his now-empty hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Yeah, well . . . you out patrolling for the aunts again?"

Mark gave a shrug of his own. "Kind of—you know it's almost suppertime."

"Hmm," Gerry nodded, still staring down at the water, "not much hungry."

Mark couldn't help it, he was staring at the man in frank astonishment. The silence that accompanied that finally drew Gerry's eyes up.

"What? I can't have an off day now and then?" the younger Hardcastle said a little stiffly. "I know, I'm the guy who rolls with the punches, always have been." He frowned and fell silent. "I dunno," he finally added quietly, "I never thought it would bother me this much—"

"It's about time _something_ did," Mark grumbled. He felt his ire rising. "And you think it's a nuisance for you—you ought to see what a pain in the ass it is for the kid." He shook his head and started to turn away.

"Well, yeah," he heard Gerry mutter, "but it's not my _kid_."

Mark halted, and turned back suddenly. "How can you be sure? I mean, just because you _hope _it isn't . . . " he paused and then started again, "and, anyway, it's not an _it_—what are we talking about, a boy or a girl?"

"How the hell should I know?" Gerry sputtered. "She hasn't even _had_ it yet."

Mark frowned in confusion. "Then what was all that talk about blood tests?"

Gerry's eyes narrowed.

"I was in the hallway," Mark said, slightly self-conscious. "I couldn't help but overhear. It's a small house."

"That's what _I_ always say, but nobody believes me."

"All right," Mark waved that away, "but the blood test thing—you can't do that until you have a kid to compare."

"Yeah, well, doesn't matter. Turns out she wasn't looking for a blood-test; she was looking for _me._"

Mark nodded absently, already wandering back a ways in the conversation, trying to find a thread that had been dropped. ". . . and, anyway, how can you be so sure it isn't yours?"

"I just am," Gerry muttered again. In the face of Mark's doubting silence he added, "It _can't_ be."

More silence. Persistent doubt.

"Listen," Gerry sighed, "I got a little problem in that department . . . let's just say that I'm never going to be put out to stud. Not that I can't entertain the ladies, mind you," he seemed to be completely unaware of Mark's increasing discomfort, "it's just one of those things some guys are born with, and if they don't fix it right away—bingo-bango—next thing you know, the guy in the white coat is telling you you're shooting blanks."

Gerry's brow furrowed as he suddenly seemed to become aware of the younger man's expression. "Too much information, huh?"

Mark nodded silently.

"Sorry," Gerry sighed. "I've been thinking about it a lot. Sheila and me . . . I thought she was kind of special, ya know? And maybe I even thought she thought _I_ was kinda special."

"You never mentioned your, um, _problem_ to her?" Mark asked cautiously.

Gerald shook his head. "We talked some, how maybe we'd get one of those trailers—an Airsteam or something. Winters at Santa Anita, then head back to Pimlico and Churchill Downs in the spring."

Mark sat mesmerized by the notion of Gerry settling down even to that extent. There was another long silence as he studied the notion. He finally broke of from it and cleared his throat gently. "'Course her telling you she was expecting kind of changed things, huh?"

"She called me up, all excited."

Mark nodded; he'd gotten one of those phone calls once. He frowned sharply, considering that memory for a moment.

"Ah . . ." he realized he was stuck on that one syllable and Gerry was giving him a questioning look. He swallowed and started over, reticently. "You know, women can be wrong about that kind of stuff."

"She sounded pretty sure."

"No, _really_. I knew this girl once . . ."

Gerry was staring now.

Mark sighed heavily and switched tacks. "I think you should tell her. Tell her all that stuff you told me. Tell her you still like her but you think maybe she oughta get a second opinion or . . . whatever."

"You think she might've been wrong?" Gerry looked at him with a glimmer of hope in his eye.

"Might be wishful thinking . . . or something like that." Mark smiled encouragingly.

"Yeah." Gerry beamed. "_Yeah_ . . . Hey, you said it was almost dinner time, huh?"

Gerry was already striding along the path that led back to the house. Mark smiled bemusedly and followed him.

By the time they'd gotten back to the house, the twilight was deepening. The Postgates' truck was in the drive and it was apparent that they were already inside. Mark hustled to keep up with the newly-energized Gerald. They'd only shared a word or two further on their way back, and those almost all from Gerry, who said he'd give Sheila a call—she was staying in the motel over in Clarence.

Then they were on the porch. The sound of Hardcastle's voice could be heard as soon as they opened the door. Mark took Gerry's jacket, along with his own, and stowed them in the hall closet. It was evident that the judge was recounting their day's adventures and Mark was in no hurry to experience it for a second time.

"He said he'd married her, and they'd had a kid, a little girl."

Mark was in the doorway of the dining room. Gerald had already found his place at the table, and was paying more attention to the platter Aunt Zora was carrying in. Billy was in his high chair, in the usual spot, with Dan on one side and May—finally sitting down—on the other.

"But not too long after that, a doc told him the baby wasn't his, on account of him and the mom both having blue eyes and the kid having brown ones." Hardcastle tucked his chin and shook his head briefly. "It works the other way around, see—two browns can have a blue—but not that way."

This momentary digression was punctuated by the sound of a dish falling to the floor, everyone's eyes traced toward the door to the kitchen. Dan was half-standing. Zora had put the platter down and turned.

"Everything all right, dear?" she inquired.

There was no answer except the distant sound of the back door, not precisely slammed, but closing with a distinctive thump as though someone had gone through in a hurry and let it fall shut.

"Damn," Dan muttered under his breath. Then he glanced at May and said, "I gotta go. Could you--?" There was only a quick gesture toward his son, and a hasty nod from May.

"Go—find her," Zora said urgently. "We'll look after things here."

He edged past the highchair. Mark only had time to ask, "Where—?" before he was gone. They heard the same sound of the back door again. Mark turned to Aunt Zora. There was a look of stern disapproval etched on her face, mostly directed at the judge.

"What—?" Hardcastle began.

"_Men_," both aunts said, almost in unison.

Zora reached for Billy, who looked on the verge of crying amid all the sudden commotion. Mark stared down at the child with a sudden heightened awareness.

_Brown eyes._

He closed his own and tried to recollect the color of Lisa's—blue, he was almost certain. As for Dan's . . . he gave up after a moment, opening his eyes and raising his eyebrows.

"What color?" he asked Zora, certain that they were on the same page.

"Blue, both of them," she said flatly.

The judge was pinching the bridge of his nose. He was apparently performing the same mental exercise that Mark had engaged in. "Damn," he said quietly, and looked around wearily. "I never noticed."

Mark headed for the backdoor, hearing Hardcastle shoving a chair aside roughly as he got to his feet, following him. Pieces of broken glass were scattered in the hallway, with a smear of cranberry jelly, red as blood, where the bowl had first fallen. He stepped past it and paused for a moment at the door. It was pitch-black outside, to his unadjusted eyes.

He fumbled for the back porch light switch. The judge caught up to him muttering, "How far could she have gotten?"

"It doesn't take that long to do something stupid," Mark shot back. He'd finally found the switch and a puddle of gold fell out across the stoop and down the steps, every blade of grass casting a fingery shadow pointing west. He pushed the screen open and stepped out. The Postgate's truck was still there.

He heard some panting breaths and saw movement out beyond the reach of the light. It was Dan, returning at a jog.

"She didn't double back?" he asked anxiously.

Mark shook his head.

Dan looked over his shoulder. "Not down by the creek, least not that I could see."

"We'll need flashlights," Hardcastle said. "Maybe the police."

"_No_." It was Dan, sharp and harsh. "She won't do anything stupid. Not like that."

"How can you be sure?" Mark asked.

"I just can." Dan gave him a steely look, but it broke into another quick, worried glance out into the darkness. "But I need to find her—_talk_ to her. Dammit." His hands were at his sides, balled in apparent frustration.

"Okay, we'll splint up." Mark ignored Hardcastle's look of disapprobation, nodding toward him as though he weren't frowning back. "You can take another look down along the creek; I'll head through the woods toward the Kendicott's; and you," he nodded at Dan, who was twitching in impatience, "do the same by road, in the truck. I think that'd be the most likely place she'd go, don't you?"

Dan nodded once and was off, scrambling into the cab of his truck. The engine turned over reluctantly and the vehicle lurched into gear. Dan leaned out the window. "If you find her, just tell her," he paused and frowned, as though he weren't exactly sure how to put it, then his voice dropped a notch in volume and pitch. "Just tell her it's all gonna be okay. _Everything_."

He executed a sharp u-turn over tussocks of grass and a corner of the past-harvest garden and then he was off in a rattle of parts and a spray of gravel. Mark felt a nudge at his elbow.

"Here." It was Hardcastle, who'd obviously ducked into the house and was now out again, handing him a jacket and a flashlight. "I got Gerald to head in toward town, have a look around, just in case." He was still frowning. "If we don't have any luck pretty quick, I say we get Sheridan in on it. You gonna back me on that?"

Mark checked the switch on the flash light and took the two steps down to the path. He glanced back up and nodded once. "Let's just give 'em a chance to work this out for themselves first, okay?"

"Yeah," the judge said doubtfully. "I suppose."


	4. Chapter 4

**Family Secrets**

**Part 4**

Mark headed out cross-country in the direction of the Postgates' new home. He played the flashlight over the rough ground. It was too dry to show any footprints, even once he got to a semi-established path. The wind was blowing cool from the north, with a hint of autumn crispness to it. Dry leaves scuttled in front of him.

_The relentless pursuit of the Almighty Truth—you never know what kind of unholy mess you'll turn up once you get busy with a shovel._

He felt as if he'd gone a good distance, and at a pace which certainly would have overtaken a distraught woman trying to navigate in the dark. He supposed she might have gone astray, fallen down, gotten hurt.

He knew it couldn't be much further before he broke through into the field alongside the barn. Daniel was undoubtedly already there. If they both came up empty it'd be time to talk to Chief Sheridan, maybe Sheriff Jackson, too. Then the Postgates' business would become everybody's.

He pulled up short, wishing he could take back his promise to Hardcastle, wishing somehow that getting the authorities involved wasn't the _right_ thing to do. Surely it'd be better for Lisa to be whispered about behind her back than to let her do something irrevocably stupid.

He was deep in that unhappy thought when a hand fell on his shoulder. He jumped and half spun around, raising the light and having both hand and light pushed back down, with a sharply whispered, "Dammit, you'll screw up my night vision."

He started breathing again and squinted in puzzlement at the outline of what sounded like Aaron Jordan. "It'd teach you not sneak up on a guy, for chrisssake," he muttered.

"Sorry." Aaron didn't sound very. "Turn the damn light off."

Mark complied reluctantly. "What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?"

"Maneuvers," Sgt. Jordan murmured. "I was going to ask you he same."

"Looking for somebody," Mark confessed unwillingly.

"Hmm."

Mark could tell the man was cocking his head, though whether it was in doubt, or because he was listening for something else, he couldn't be sure. "What kind of maneuvers are we talking about?" he asked, both out of a growing curiosity and to shift the topic.

"A little reconnaissance." It was impossible to make out the man's expression in the wooded darkness. "Nobody wants to talk around me anymore, not after my breaking up their fun the other night, so I stopped by my dad's place."

There was a pause. Mark wondered what kind of reception the prodigal had received after nearly four years. As if he'd spoken the question out loud, Aaron answered in a quiet aside, "I thought maybe that old snake couldn't bite deep enough anymore—the Army toughens you up some, ya know?"

Mark wasn't sure there was any miracle the Army could work toward father-proofing a guy that a stint in prison hadn't been able to produce in his own case, but he didn't express his doubts.

"Yeah, well," Aaron sighed, "not as tough as I thought, or maybe he just knows all the weak spots. But after he got done cussing me out, he told me to stay away from the Kendicott place."

"Why?—Me and Hardcastle, huh—he didn't want you helping friends of ours?"

"Maybe that was partly it, but mostly he said there was gonna be some more trouble, and this time they'd be ready for me."

"'This time'? _When_?"

"Don't know. I was heading over there, saw your light and heard you tromping along, thought you were them and hunkered down to wait for you to pass."

"You didn't see anyone else?" Mark asked, peering around into the darkness.

"Nah. Nobody. Might just be more of the old coot's moonshine again. He was always talking like he knew stuff when he didn't."

"I dunno," Mark furrowed his brow and turned back toward the Postgates' property. "You comin'?"

"You oughta let me go point," Aaron said, slipping past him. "I don't need a flashlight to go for a walk in the woods."

With that he moved down the path noiselessly. Mark blundered along behind. There was next to no light—only a few stars glimpsed through the overhanging trees and the occasional whispered warning before a branch swept back. But he gradually began to make out Aaron's silhouette and it seemed like more backlight than could be accounted for by the clearing they were approaching.

"Dammit."

He heard Jordan's harsh hiss and saw him drop down.

"What?" he asked, pushing forward to get a better look and feeling his arm grabbed and yanked downward.

"Wait a sec. Let's see what we're up against," Aaron said on barely a whispered breath.

Mark could see it now; the back side of the barn was visible from their approach and there were men, shadows against the darker boards. They were clustered together huddled over something. There was the sound of an engine, distant, drawing nearer, then the barn itself was suddenly caught in the bright glare as a set of headlights cut across the clearing. The men didn't scatter as the engine noise suddenly silenced and the driver's door opened.

"Lisa?"

It was pure pleading query—no anger. Mark saw Dan standing on the running board to get a little more height as he scanned the scene. It was obvious he couldn't see what he was up against. Aaron uttered a low heartfelt curse at the unexpected complication and yanked Mark back down again as he started to rise.

"We're outnumbered," he warned. "We gotta outflank 'em."

Part of the huddled group broke off and was circling around in Dan's direction.

"Can you handle them?" Aaron nodded in the direction of the three left behind. "Just hold 'em off for a bit." He was reaching behind him, feeling around. "Here," he'd pulled up a baseball bat-sized hunk of wood, "scream like a banshee and thrash at 'em."

"What are you--?" Mark got no further than that before Aaron was on his feet, in a crouch, obviously trying to close as much distance between him and the larger group before he was noticed. There was a glint of steel in his right hand. It was an obvious signal for Mark to get moving as well, though in his case stealth was not an issue.

It might have been the culmination of a long, frustrating day, but Mark charged out from the cover with a holler that brought all parties except Aaron to a halt. The group that had been closing on Dan wavered, looking behind them.

Mark saw no more of that, hearing only some grunted cussing as Aaron must've closed to do battle. He was focused on the three shocked faces he was charging toward. They were better lit than they'd been a moment ago. Open flame—just a lighter in one guy's hand, but the tang of gasoline was obvious. He swung and the three scattered. He'd made contact with the one in the middle—a solid thump on the knee. The man was down.

His backswing caught on something—the right-hand guy had made a lucky grab for his weapon. He shoved, hard, and that man went sprawling, but probably not much hurt. A heavy weight dropped on him from behind—the third guy he reasoned distantly as he tried to throw him off. No go, it was a choke-hold now, and guy number two was back on his feet. It was getting harder to swing his weapon. Too many purple spots and no way to let Aaron know he'd let himself get outflanked.

He had a vague impression of flickering gold, but even that dimmed amid the growing purple.

00000

Someone was whacking his face—places that already hurt. The stinging pain brought him most of the way round.

"Come on now."

The harsh drawl got his full attention. He tried to scramble back, lost his balance and started to topple over.

"It's just me—the fight's over."

Mark squinted, working his way quickly forward through the four intervening years. He was pretty sure Aaron Jordan wasn't trying to beat the crap out of him this time and the rest was coming back to him fast.

"Oh _no_." He'd obviously been pulled away from where he'd fallen in the fight. But even from where he was now, the heat was still intense. Flames shot up the side of the barn, licking onto the shingles. "We've got to—" he tried to get up. Aaron's hand was on his shoulder.

"Too late, sorry. Had to haul you back . . . _him_, too." Aaron practically spat the last two words out and he nodded sharply at the man only a few feet away, rocking and moaning as he clutched his right knee. "I think you capped him. Nice."

"What happened to the rest?" Mark asked dazedly.

"Ran off and left this guy to take the heat," Aaron drawled with a tone that indicated he wasn't too surprised. "Don't matter none. All we need is this one." He grinned toothily.

"Wait a sec." Mark put his hand to his forehead. "Just . . . _wait_."

Aaron has his knife out again. Mark wasn't sure exactly where he'd secreted it. The sergeant inspected it by the glint of firelight with an air of minor displeasure and then gave it two quick swipes on the grass, one for each side of the blade.

Mark frowned. He was starting to notice just a hint of theatricality that he hadn't known the younger man possessed—at least he _hoped_ that was what it was.

"_Aaron_," he said slowly and sternly, drawing out the name into two syllables, "remember what the judge said _last_ time."

"I won't kill him," Jordan said breathlessly. "Come on, I just want to cut him up a little." He flicked the knife in a swift jabbing upstroke that halted just an inch before the other man's face, which was now drawn back in a look of horror.

"No-no, _please,_" the man gasped and turned toward Mark—his knee forgotten in a blind panic.

"What's your name?" Mark asked, as if he were growing quickly weary of the whole process.

"Trev Jennings," the young man stuttered, grasping at his knee again. It was apparent that he wasn't very old—maybe not even eighteen.

Mark looked past him toward the barn, now engulfed with flames shooting up higher than the roof. He could see Dan, standing far too close, staring grimly, caught in the shimmering heat and utterly powerless to do anything to stop the destruction.

"Why?" Mark asked bitterly.

"I didn't even wanna do it," Jennings blathered. "Jack said the old guy'd give us a pile of money if we ran those folk off the place and burned the barn."

"What old guy?"

Jennings looked back and forth between his two adversaries briefly. Jordan was still playing with his knife, staring at it almost dreamily, drawing little figure eights in the air with the tip of the blade.

"Old Man Eisley." Jenning's voice quivered slightly—all his courage gone with the pack.

"_Why_?" Mark said again, almost certain the man he was asking didn't know the answer. He didn't wait for a reply as he staggered to his feet. "You'll watch him?" he said to Aaron.

Jordan's expression suddenly snapped out of its reverie and the knife slipped out of sight. Mark wondered vaguely how much of what he'd just seen had been a show. He decided he didn't care as he turned away and stumbled up the little rise toward Dan.

"Come on," he said. "You gotta get back a little. There's nothing you can do now."

Mark felt neither resistance nor cooperation as he took Dan by the arm and drew him away. He could hear sirens now, distant but approaching fast. One of the nearer neighbors must've seen the flames shooting up over the treetops and had summoned the volunteer fire department. He felt the night breeze from the north stiffening. At least they could save the house.

More headlights cut across the now hazy yard as the fire engine emerged through the break in the trees. Behind it was a tanker, and behind that a marked car from the sheriff's department. As the firefighters scrambled to off-load and connect their hoses, Mark steered Dan toward the deputy.

"Arson," he said simply. "There were at least seven men here earlier. Sergeant Jordan has one of them." He pointed toward the fallen man, with Aaron on his feet nearby. "He might need some medical attention," Mark added as an afterthought.

The deputy frowned, glancing over at the barn, now collapsing in under the combined assault of fire and water. Then he strode off toward the other two men, one hand on his holstered gun and the other reaching for his handcuffs.

Another car careened into the clearing with the unmistakable grace of a Studebaker. Dan looked up with sharp expectation, but only the judge, the two aunts, and their young charge emerged. Zora stood in shocked silence for a moment, holding the youngest Postgate firmly on her hip. Billy pointed and babbled in excitement. Hardcastle hustled toward them.

"Gasoline and a lighter. We got one of them." Mark pointed over his shoulder. "I dunno. It doesn't make any sense. The guy says Mr. Eisley paid them to do it. He's the banker, isn't he?"

"Retired," Zora said, glancing sharply at May.

"Oh, dear," May said barely audible above the hubbub of firefighting. "You don't think . . .?"

"The least likely," Zora said sagely, "by a considerable margin."

"Wait a sec—" Hardcastle held up a hand. "The body'd already been found. If he's behind this, then there must be something else going on."

"None of you found Lisa yet?" Dan asked quietly.

The other four froze and then looked at him with mutual guilt. Before anyone could apologize for their preoccupation, another vehicle turned in between the trees, swaying deeply as it hit the ruts. It was a dark-colored Lincoln Continental whose driver seemed unfamiliar with the road.

It pulled up. Gerald scrambled out of the front passenger seat then turned and said something to the person behind the wheel. The backseat door opened from within.

"_Leese_," Dan shouted, no longer paying the fire any mind as he lunged forward. He swept her up--her eyes closed and her arms wrapped around his neck.

The Lincoln pulled off slowly and departed. Gerald stood were he'd climbed out and looked bemusedly at the chaos. Mark hustled him away from the embracing couple and leaned in toward him.

"Where'd ya find her?"

"Not me," Gerry said, _soto voce_. "It was Sheila. I was walking around downtown, thinking about what you said." He shrugged. "I decide to give her a call. She heads right over to see me and—whaddaya know?—she finds Lisa walking along the side of the road crying her eyes out." He shook his head. "Sheila's got a soft spot for hard luck cases."

"That much I could've guessed."

"Who's Sheila?" Hardcastle interjected as he walked up.

Gerry blushed.

"Just somebody Gerald knows," Aunt Zora said, catching the ball on the fly and delivering it to second base.

"An old friend," May said firmly, tagging the judge out.

"Looked like Florida plates," Hardcastle said, squinting after the Lincoln in a way that suggested he might contest the umpire's ruling.

"Lots of people winter down there," Zora said, apropos of nothing, jiggling Billy just enough to keep him amused.

"The barn," Lisa gasped, finally braking free of Dan's embrace. "The _wood_." She looked up at him, standing at her side. "The mortgage," she said forlornly.

"Doesn't matter," he told her, reaching for Billy who reached back, gurgling with delight at the transfer.

"None of it matters," he repeated, almost to himself. "We still got what's important."

Another car was entering the yard, this one a conservative silver Audi of recent vintage. It halted a ways back and only the driver's door opened. Zora and May frowned at the woman as she approached, but at Hardcastle's look of confusion Zora turned and said, "Miss Eisley, from the bank."

"I saw heard the engines and saw where it seemed to be coming from." She studied the charred remains of the barn with a closed-in look that revealed very little of what she might be thinking.

"It was set," Mark said, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. There was no reaction, as if she hadn't even heard. "Intentionally," he added in clarification. "It's arson."

She blinked once, then looked aside and asked, "_Why_?" It sounded like an honest question.

Mark sighed and glanced at Hardcastle, as if to hand it over to him.

"Ms., ah, _Eisley_?" the judge said, all polite rectitude. "We need to talk to your father."

00000

Things got sorted out quickly, with Gerry and May staying behind to offer the Postgates their support, while Zora and Mark piled into the Studebaker and the judge finessed a ride from Ms. Eisley, who seemed equal parts bemused and worried.

Mark would have liked to have heard that conversation, as the Audi wheeled through the night a few car lengths in front of them. Instead, he pumped Aunt Zora—always cheerfully willing to share most of what she knew with her youngest nephew.

"Who is this guy?"

"Oh, well, he's an _Eisley_. They've lived in these parts pretty much as long as anyone but the Quapaw." She knitted her brow. "There was a Colonel Keenan Eisley. His name is at the top of the list on the plinth in the square. I believe he died in the 1890s.

"He had a plantation—nothing like they have over in Virginia, but I'm sure it was the biggest thing around here. It was ruined during the war but he hung onto that land—wouldn't let it go no matter what. It wasn't till he passed on that his son sold it off and built the house in town. That's how the bank got started—the Eisleys being the only folks 'round here with any cash, from selling land to immigrants and Yankees."

"So this Eisley, he's the son of the one who founded the bank?"

Zora cocked her head. "Grandson, if I'm not mistaken. Yes . . . and he's a Keenan, too. All the Eisley men were and he's the fourth. He's a bit older than Milton. He went off to college before the war. Never served. 4F, though I couldn't tell you precisely why," she sniffed. "He married someone down in Fayetteville. She died young, of the consumption."

"'Consumption'?"

"TB. There was a sanatorium in Boonesville. That's where all the tuberculosis patients went."

"You met her?"

"I—" Zora paused, then frowned, then stared out through the windshield at the back of the silver Audi. "No," she finally said, "_never_." She shook her head. "I believe he met her in Fayetteville. She never lived here. It was a common enough thing. People went to Boonesville and never came back, most of them."

"And Ms. Eisley—"

"Evelyn," Zora interrupted quietly. "She's his only child. He never remarried."

"I don't think he ever married at all," Mark said, clenching the steering wheel tighter. "That part won't be too hard to prove. I'll bet he has brown eyes, too."

The Audi was pulling into the drive. There were carriage lights along the side, and their yellow glow illuminated a small part of a well-kept lawn. The house was old, with four square columns supporting the overhang of the two-story porch. Mark tried to envision the owner. Someone out of Dickens, no doubt, who'd be a good match for Miss Haversham. He pulled in behind the other car, got out, as he saw Hardcastle doing, and went around to hand Aunt Zora out of her seat.

"He's home?" Hardcastle asked tersely as the little group gathered on the walkway.

"Always," Evelyn replied, "at least since his stroke, last year. He can walk, but it isn't easy for him. _Really_," she interrupted herself abruptly, "I don't know what's so important that you have to talk to him about it tonight. He's not the president of the bank anymore. _I'm_ the one responsible for that loan." It was evident that Hardcastle hadn't done much explaining on the drive over. Mark wondered if he even knew as much Eisley family history as Aunt Zora.

It didn't matter. He was standing firm, and there was only the thin crust of civility holding the whole seething mess together right now. The judge gestured Evelyn in front of him. She turned stiffly and started up the walk, onto the porch. She had her house keys out and opened the door. They entered behind her with no ceremonial pretense of welcome from her and stood momentarily in the front hall.

"_Dad_," she said, loud enough to be heard in to be heard in the adjoining rooms. "We've got company." She hadn't quite pulled off the last word. It came out with a pointed emphasis that suggested the guests weren't precisely welcome.

"In here," a rusty voice announced from the room on their right, a parlor, from what Mark could see of it.

She stepped through the doorway. Hardcastle was close on her heels and the rest of them clustered behind. It was a stately nineteenth-century room with high, coved ceilings and patterned paper on the walls.

Only in the far corner were things scaled to human proportion with a comfortable upholstered chair and footstool. A dark wood table was wedged in alongside. All the necessities were in easy reach for an invalid's convenience. In the chair—leaning forward slightly, as though he had planned to rise but been defeated by gravity—was a man whose family resemblance to Evelyn Eisley was unmistakable. His hair was gray, his dark eyes sunken, his nose thin and patrician.

"Who are they?" he asked sharply, as though no one but his daughter had entered.

"Zora and Milt Hardcastle," Evelyn said hastily as she moved to him, settling him back in his seat and picking up the afghan that had half-fallen from his legs.

He put up with the fussing but kept a wary eye on the company, mostly the judge. Mark didn't mind having been left out of the introductions. He escorted Zora to a settee and found himself sinking in gratefully beside her. This was Hardcastle's show, now.

The judge stayed on his feet, while Evelyn perched herself on a chair near her father's and leaned toward him.

"It was the barn over at the Postgates' place," she said, gazing at him intently. "Looks like a total loss."

"Told ya," the old man muttered grumpily.

"Yeah, well," Hardcastle interjected, "it was arson. Went up like tinder." He shook his head regretfully. "And the man who was detained at the scene says you offered the money that got the job done."

"_Nonsense_," the fourth Keenan Eisley spat. "Why would I do a fool thing like that?"

"That's what I was wondering, since you must've heard we'd already found the body."

Eisley flushed red, though it might have been justified anger at a barely-veiled accusation.

"Listen," Hardcastle pulled up another chair and sat, almost closer than Evelyn had; he dropped his voice into something almost chummy, "We know about Bessie Mae." He leaned in even further. "_Everything_."

Mark knew for a fact that wasn't true, but even knowing it, he was inclined to believe what the judge was saying.

Eisley had gone pale. He turned to his daughter and hissed, "Don't listen to him. It's all a pack of lies."

"_What_ is?" Ms. Eisley frowned.

Her father retrenched, drawing himself up straighter. The first assault looked as if it might fail. Mark took a deep breath and cut in.

"You've got a guy named Jack who works for you?"

Evelyn turned toward him with a surprised look on her face, as though she'd forgotten he was there. "Jack Hemple," she said, still frowning. "He runs errands for dad and does the yard work. He doesn't just work for us, though."

"He's been implicated as the ringleader of the gang that set the fire," Mark said, half to Hardcastle.

"And in the same line of work as Dan, huh?" The judge's face had taken on a look of speculation. "Still, I don't think that'd be enough to make him want to run the Postgates out of town."

"Outsiders," Eisley muttered, then appeared to bite his tongue before he could say more. He turned to his daughter and took a more acceptable tack. "I told you not to back that sale."

"Dad," she said, sounding increasingly uncertain, "you didn't—"

"'Course I didn't. They can't prove any of this, otherwise they'd have that busybody Sheridan knocking on my door, not them sitting here spinning tales."

"Do you have any pictures from your parents wedding?" Mark asked quietly. "Just one?"

Evelyn had frozen where she sat. She began speaking slowly, as if from an explanation she'd heard long ago and knew by rote. "Mother was very ill, even then."

"Too ill to have her picture taken?" Hardcastle prodded gently.

"They had a justice of the peace, no guests. She was _sick_." Evelyn had turned her gaze back to her father. "No pictures," she said, hardly more than a whisper. "Not one." Her brown eyes caught his faded ones in a locked stare. "Dad— what's happening?"

"You people have no right—no right at all to come in here and _interfere_. Outsiders. All of you."

"Keenan Eisley," Zora drew herself up very straight, "I've lived in this town all my life, which is more years than you've been alive, and long enough to remember that your family built its fortune on 'outsiders'."

"All I want to know is why you let those guys have another go at burning the barn down," Hardcastle shook his head. "Your daughter knew the body'd been found—you must've known, too."

Evelyn blanched, her expression of doubt deepening. Who she doubted became clear a half second later as she blurted out, "Oh, _Dad_," and then shot her father a horrified look. She began speaking again, after a pause in which he'd said nothing. "No . . . I didn't tell him. I kept it to myself because I knew he'd say he'd told me so." She turned to her father again. "Why were you so set against that mortgage? All that talk about it being a bad loan."

The old man was rocking slightly. "None of this had to happen, don't you see?" He didn't make eye contact with her. "If you'd only listened to me. Kids these days, they don't listen. _I_ listened." The rocking was becoming increasingly frenetic.

"I would have married her. They told me I couldn't. No family to speak of—they said all she wanted was money. My father gave her some." He went rigid for a moment, then slowly shook his head. " He was right. She took it, bought herself a fancy dress. She came to me after that, told me we ought to run off together—her wearing that dress she'd bought with my father's money. I told her what she was. She left and took up with that field hand, _Hanesley_." He spat the name.

His eyes came back into focus and his gaze lighted on Evelyn's now frozen expression of horror but even that didn't stop the flow.

"I didn't know she was _expecting_. I never knew anything about that until she came back. She wanted more money. My father said no. I told her—" he stopped, breathing hard, but no one moved as he gradually got control over himself again.

"I told her there was some money. I knew where it was. There were family stories—the reason why Great-grandpa Eisley wouldn't sell the plantation—that he'd been a member of the Klan after the war and he'd hidden gold out there, money to help restart the Confederacy. I told her I'd found the clues in an old family Bible." He blinked once. His face was dull and flat.

"I _had_ found a letter, years earlier. Tried to make sense out of it, snuck up there every chance I got for a while, but it wasn't our land anymore and if'n the Kendicotts had realized what I was doing, it would've been all over. I thought maybe I'd try one last time, before they put that damn barn up and there were no more chances." His eyes came up one more time searching for Evelyn's as if looking for understanding.

"I wasn't planning on killing her." He shook his head sharply. "I was hoping we'd find the money. I'da got on the train with her and you and never looked back . . . but she showed up wearing that dress. Wasn't so fancy and new as before, but the same one. 'For the train ride to New Orleans' she said. She left you in the back seat of my car. You were asleep. She came over and watched me dig. She kept making remarks. I told her to be quiet. Didn't want anyone to wake up. She wouldn't listen. And the hole kept getting deeper."

There was a pause in his increasingly choppy delivery. At first he seemed to be catching his breath again, but gradually it dawned on Mark that it was an attempt to speak. The gasping grew more labored and the man was leaning to the side.

"Something's wrong," he said to the judge, who was already on his feet and reaching for Eisley, catching him before he could topple to the floor. Evelyn seemed frozen—too much, too fast, but now she was on her feet as well.

"You'd better call a doctor," Hardcastle said, giving her something concrete to do, though Eisley's face was growing rapidly dusky and there appeared to be no breathing at all.

Evelyn rushed from the room. The two men began to lay Eisley flat. Only Zora stayed seated and she said—as they were on the verge of rendering further assistance—"This really might be the best thing for everyone concerned, you know."

It had been a rather matter-of-fact statement, but it caught them both in mid-action. Mark froze, looking down at the dark face, Eisley's flat, fixed, dull eyes staring back up at him. He looked across the man at Hardcastle, who was looking back at him.

"She's right, you know," Mark said. "Besides, he looks pretty dead."

He sat back on his haunches, feeling suddenly very weary. The judge looked disapproving, but he wasn't leaping into action anymore, either.

"All right," he finally grunted. "I s'pose you've both got a point. Anyway, she," he nodded toward the doorway Evelyn had passed through, "didn't do anything to deserve this. Maybe best to let the whole thing rest."

'She' was back, announcing anxiously from the doorway, "Dr. Brent's on the way. He lives right down the block. He said to call an ambulance but they come from Clarence—might be a while."

She'd come close enough to see, now, and she let out a gasp and then, "Oh, Dad," as she sank to her knees beside him.

Mark eased back, out of her way. Hardcastle was up as well. They heard the knocker on the door—an urgent staccato that was undoubtedly the doctor. Zora rose and dealt with that. Words were exchanged in the hallway, too quiet to be heard as more than murmurs but apparently enough to bring Brent up to speed. He strode in a moment later. Evelyn stayed where she was but it was obvious from Brent's considered motions that there would be no need for the ambulance.

"I'll give the coroner a call," he said to the judge, after he'd administered a few consoling words to the dead man's daughter, "but I don't think he'll be insisting on a post-mortem. A second stroke, from the looks of it, unless you're going to tell me different." He raised one eyebrow.

Hardcastle told him nothing at all as the three men moved back into the hallway, leaving Zora to offer a shoulder to the quietly sobbing Evelyn. Once they were out of the parlor, Brent gave Mark a caustic once-over.

"They were trying to send me some of your business earlier this evening. A patellar fracture, sounds like. I told 'em if he needed x-rays they'd better run him in to Clarence." He was peering closely at the younger man's neck. "I'm glad to hear you're starting to fight back."

Mark smiled sheepishly. "Hey, it was the second time for those guys this week."

"I thought some of those bruises looked older." Brent shook his head. "No ribs this time, eh?"

"Me? No," Mark took a deep breath to demonstrate. "Dan, though, he's hurting."

"And nobody called me." The doctor frowned. "Winter's coming. If he can't swing an ax, how am I going to get my woodpile topped off?"

"I'm not sure his ribs are what's bothering him the most right now." Mark cast a quick look toward Hardcastle. He didn't get any contrary signals, so he proceeded, with caution and in quiet tones, to tell Brent the rest of the story. He was nearly through—and the day sounded almost as long as was beginning to feel—when Zora poked her head out of the parlor.

"You'd best not wait for me. I'll stay here with her until they come for the body."

The judge started to say, "I can—"

He was cut off by Zora's whispered, "_Git_—all of you." She made a shooing motion with both hands. "The sooner you're gone the sooner she can start to pretend she never heard a blessed word of it."

They were unceremoniously hustled out onto the porch and the door shut behind them. Brent scratched his head. "Might be a while."

Mark eyed the Studebaker, then shot a look at the judge. "We'd better leave her the car. She's not gonna want to call one of us if it's late."

"I can give you two a ride. My night's mostly shot anyway." Brent yawned.

"Back to the Postgates' place?" Hardcastle suggested.

"What the heck, why not?" the doctor replied, a little too fast to suggest that he hadn't been thinking the very same thing himself. "Oughta take a look at my woodcutter, make sure he's still in one piece."

00000

It was a quiet drive back. Hardcastle seemed subdued, as though he weren't looking forward to taking up where they'd left off. Mark thought all that hugging was a fine thing in the middle of a crisis and in the first flush of relief that everyone had survived, but it was no guarantee of a lasting solution.

Even the usually loquacious Brent looked as though he were lost in thought. Of course they'd handed him a plateful of plot in one heaping serving back in the Eisleys' foyer—that and a newly dead body. The whole thing probably required a little digesting. Unfortunately, there wasn't all that much time before they'd arrived at the dirt road turn-off that led to the Postgates' property.

The fire trucks were gone. In their place was an additional car from the Sheriff's department as well as two more cars and a utility vehicle from the state police. They'd set up lights, and a guy in overalls and safety boots was poking amid the rubble collecting what was needed.

Aunt May and the Postgates were nowhere in sight but the new arrivals were greeted by Sheriff Jackson.

"Where'd you folks tear off to?" he said, eyeing Dr. Brent with particular curiosity. "I get here and half my witnesses are gone. I got one busted-up hooligan who knows his damn rights and even that Jordan kid won't give me nothin' but name, rank and serial number. He said to ask you what's what." He'd directed this last bit at Hardcastle with an attitude of impatience. "We've got an accelerant; even I can see that."

"Hooligans," Hardcastle said grimly. "That's about right. The Postgates don't have any insurance on the structure and they had plans to sell the building materials as salvage. They lost a bundle on this fire, so you don't have to look in that direction. The rest of it, well, you lean on that kid and see how far you get. He mentioned the ringleader's name was Jack. Might be somebody who saw Dan Postgate as competition in the odd-jobs trade . . . if these guys even thought it through _that_ much."

With that he walked past Jackson, leaving him standing there, hands on his hips, looking dissatisfied. Mark waited for Brent to pass ahead of him, then ducked his chin in a sociable nod to the sheriff and brought up the rear of the procession. He honestly wished the man luck in rounding up the rest of the shadowy bunch, as long as no lambs were hung along with the multitude of sheep.

He saw Hardcastle exchanging a few words with Aunt May on the Postgates' porch. Her eyes went wide for a moment, then she turned and greeted Brent solemnly.

"Billy's asleep, _finally_. Lisa and Dan are in the kitchen. There's coffee."

Her expression suggested the household was in mourning, though whether it was for the lost of their prospects or something deeper was not clear. This time Brent led the way, striding in like a man who was used to making house-calls under delicate circumstances.

The weary couple looked up: surprise and consternation, with Dan flashing a mildly accusatory look in Mark's direction. He shrugged back. Surely by now the man knew that Brent, like Hardcastle, was a force of nature who went where he pleased.

The exam took place right there in the kitchen, with shirt shed and stethoscope and percussion applied. Brent was focused in a way that suggested he'd heard the entire tale of woe. It made the process easier, Mark decided—everyone knowing without further discussion or questions.

"Fifth rib on the right," Brent said, straightening up, doubling his stethoscope, and plunging it back into his bulging jacket pocket. "But the lungs are sound. You'll live to chop wood again."

Dan flashed a wan smile that faded back into a morose expression that matched his wife's.

"I'm thinking, though," Brent said with an air of contemplation, "I'm wanting that woodlot cleared. Be willing to pay someone to do it, too. Not sure what I'd do with all that wood at one time, though. I figured the guy who cuts it could dispose of it as well. Must be a market for that sort of thing—some of those trees are of a good size."

It was Lisa who smiled this time. There was obviously gratitude, but it was tinged with regret.

"You've been real kind to us, Doc. You all have," her eyes took in the other three, "but Dan and I, we've talked it over and we're gonna be moving on." She left the 'why' of it unspoken but her glance, flicking away in embarrassment, was enough to give the reason.

Brent shook his head sharply. Mark sensed one of those fronts rolling in that would be equal parts kind and blunt.

"Listen, you two, people are _not_ sweet peas, and babies don't always read the rulebook. Besides, what we don't know about genetics would fill a volume the size of the New York City telephone directory. Why, I could give you about five different ways that little tyke of yours could have come out looking like part of an unmatched set, but then what would the old biddies have to talk about? "

Mark cringed at that last part. It seemed that the nail had been hit precisely on the head. Dan had cocked his head and was listening. Lisa was staring fixedly at the linoleum.

"The thing is," Brent went on, reasoning out loud, "no matter where you go, there you _are_ . . . and there's plenty of biddies to go around. Seems to me you're better off in a place where you have friends—and close enough so I can get my wood cut."

He got a slow nod from Dan, who reached over and took Lisa's hand.

"It's been a long day," May chipped in, surprisingly brightly. "We'll all be thinking a lot cleared in the morning, after we've had some rest." She was moving toward the door, issuing promises to return in the a.m. "The state police are sending a backhoe, on account of it still being a crime scene. I think Billy will like that."

The visitors said their good-byes. Hardcastle was outside, looking round. His eyes glanced over the now-dark skeleton of the barn. The investigators appeared to be packing up for the night.

"Hey," he said, "where's Gerry?"

May made a vague gesture with one hand as she strolled toward Brent's car. "He left some time ago. Went home, I imagine."

"He _walked_?" the judge said, hustling to catch up with the rest.

"I believe so. I didn't _see_ him getting a ride."

Mark recognized a certain degree of linguistic precision there. Hardcastle undoubtedly did as well. He seemed to be biting his tongue in front of Brent, but Mark himself received a sharp look that suggested he'd be getting grilled later on. He smiled beatifically, being a master of precise language himself.

00000

Despite his earlier fatigue, and the lateness of the hour when Dr. Brent finally deposited them at their doorstep, Mark was in no hurry to go inside. Part of it was Hardcase avoidance, he suspected. The rest was a feeling of unsettledness—too much having happened all in one night. There were still too many strings left hanging.

The judge prodded to no avail. "I'll be in in a little bit," was the most commitment he could get out of the younger man.

"Would've thought you'd had enough fresh air for one day," Hardcastle grumbled, but finally headed up the steps to the front door.

Mark smiled and turned away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The air was crisper than it had been in the early evening. The smell of the fire still carried on the night air. Ordinarily it would have been a pleasant scent, redolent of memory: fishing trips and summer evenings on the beach below Gull's Way. Now it reeked of disappointment.

Though Dr. Brent's offer had been a kind one, and might go a long way toward fixing the immediate threat to the Postgates' finances, it would do nothing to repair the damage to the reputation of the property, and that was what their future security rested on. Mark was still contemplating that problem when a now-familiar Lincoln pulled up to the curb and deposited a passenger.

Gerry looked around nervously, then turned and leaned down toward the driver. There might have been a peck on the cheek. Whatever it was, it looked friendly enough. Mark wasn't sure he'd been spotted in the shadows. As the car pulled away he cleared his throat. Gerald turned and definitely saw him. A nod of acknowledgement followed.

"Milt back?" Gerry asked cautiously.

"Yeah," Mark said, "a few minutes ago. I think he went to bed."

There might have been a sigh of relief, though Gerry must have realized he wasn't quite off the hook.

"How'd it go?" Mark finally asked, taking a page from Brent's very blunt notebook.

Gerald grinned sheepishly a second or so before he finally admitted, "Okay."

"_So_," Mark prodded, "she's gonna get a second opinion?"

"No need," Gerry said with an air of nonchalance that couldn't quite mask his relief. "She says she thinks she was wrong all along. It was the change of life or something like that. Anyway, we're heading back down to Miami tomorrow. Maybe early." He cast one wary look through the trees in the direction of the second floor—a light was still on in the one window.

"I think you should've just headed out tonight and had Aunt Zora ship your suitcase. There's no way you'll beat him out of bed in the morning."

Gerry sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right. But she's just an old friend, okay? That's my story and I'm stickin' to it."

Mark held up both hands just briefly, shoulder high. "No problem here. Just promise me you'll stop by and see us once you've got the Airstream, okay? I'd pay good money to see the look on Milt's face when you pull up in that."

"Don't worry," Gerald grinned again. "Just one good trifecta and we'll have it. You wait."

The light in the upstairs window went off.

Mark nodded in that direction. "I think the coast is clear."

They moseyed in, quietly. Gerry even slipped his shoes off before tackling the stairs. Mark, grinning, watched him ponderously tiptoeing past the first bedroom door. He waited until the younger Hardcastle had his own door shut behind him before he silently entered the bedroom he shared with the judge.

"What the hell's up with Gerry?" Hardcastle muttered out of the darkness, illuminated only by a narrow swath of light from the half-open door.

Mark shut the door quickly and felt his way over to his side of the room. He couldn't see a thing, but he suspected the judge was more adjusted so he kept his expression neutral as he thought fast. It wasn't more than a moment before he'd decided that Gerry's version was the best.

"He got a ride home from an old friend, that's all."

00000

In what might have been almost a miracle, or merely a reflection on how long the preceding day had been, Gerry was up and away before either of the other two awoke the next morning. There might also have been a couple of aunts in the conspiracy, since they had both been up for some time when their other two nephews finally staggered downstairs to the kitchen—Mark bleary-eyed and with a very stiff neck—at about nine-thirty.

"And by the time the men from the funeral home came, it was past two am," Zora was saying, though she looked none the worse for wear.

"Poor Evelyn," May said, and took a sip from her teacup. "She'll be needing a casserole."

Zora reached for the recipe box on the shelf above the counter. "Hello, dears," she nodded as the two men entered. "There are donuts, and we've got some fresh coffee."

Coffee and powdered sugar had their usual rejuvenative properties. By the time they'd plowed through a half-dozen of the donuts, divided evenly, Mark felt ready to face the Postgate problem. Even with a backhoe he figured there'd be some manual labor involved.

He was right. They arrived on the scene just as the state crew was knocking down the last remains. There was still heat rising off the charred beams, tumbled into a pile to one side. It was evident that, as crime scenes went, this one was being wrapped up. Dan was watching from a short ways off. Lisa was nowhere in sight.

"Must be inside," Zora shouted over the noise of the machine. May nodded her agreement and they both gathered up the lunch supplies and headed for the porch.

The two men sauntered over in Dan's direction. He hadn't even noticed them yet, looking lost in morose thought. Mark thought it didn't look good for all of Brent's kindly given words of advice the night before.

He was about to reach out and touch the man's shoulder when they engine of the backhoe cut out. In the sudden ringing silence Dan seemed to sense their presence and turned, acknowledging them with a nod and then looking back at the crew, puzzled. The backhoe man had climbed down from his perch and summoned his assistant. The two were peering down at the ground just in front of the blade, at a spot where it had apparently caught on something.

Dan and the two recent arrivals wandered over to see what was up. It was a stump, blackened and now half uprooted.

"Must've been here when they built the place," Dan muttered. "They cut it off flat and didn't bother to blast it out."

The backhoe guy nodded his agreement. "Rotted out some. I reckon I can get most of it out with a little more oomph." He smiled and climbed up to his seat. "Might wanna get back a ways."

They did, though not nearly far enough, having the usual human interest in seeing a little mindless destruction. The engine rumbled, the blade bit, gears strained, and the thing came loose with a sudden wrench that spewed dirt and ash over everyone.

The operator backed it up some and cut the engine again. The stump now lay on its side, with a corona of roots perpendicular to the ground and a substantial hole where it had formerly sat.

"Hey," the man hollered down, pointing into the hole, "what's that?"

His vantage point was better. The others moved in again. Mark saw the suspicious object—a right-angled dark corner protruding from the loosened earth. Hardcastle was still pondering the uprooted stump.

"I'll betcha that's the black oak," he said, "what's left of the one that damaged the old barn. Must've been a hundred years old, even then."

"It was around back in the war?" Mark asked, sliding down into the shallow pit.

"Yeah, around, but not very big."

"Big enough to be a landmark, though, you suppose?." He cleared off some of the dirt, the base of the corner broadened. It was made of iron, banded and riveted.

"Well, yeah, only tree in a clearing. What is it?"

Mark sat down suddenly against the upslope. "A strongbox, I think."

00000

It didn't take much persuading to get the backhoe operator and his helper to excavate a little further, though without them it would have been a major project to get the box up and out of the dirt and onto solid ground. It wasn't more than two feet on its longer side, but proved surprisingly heavy. Two rusted chains and the abandoned head of a pick axe showed how it had originally been interred.

Mark studied the padlock. It was rusted past any hope of manual persuasion, even if it hadn't been a magnitude larger than anything he'd ever previously tried to pick. The backhoe man offered to pick the box up and drop it a few times but was politely refused. Dan and the judge poked around in the piles of charred wood until Dan found one of the pry bars. Mark wedged it between the hasp and the lid and both of them yanked until that piece broke free of its fastenings and the two men tumbled back.

There was momentary frustration. Both hinges were rusted into solid pieces, but the rivets holding them in place gave way to the same application of force as the hasp had. When they'd finally freed the lid there was a moment of hesitation. Mark stood back to allow Dan the honors.

"It ain't mine," the younger man protested.

"The hell it isn't," Mark said, though he wasn't precisely clear on the applicable points of law. He looked up at Hardcastle, standing with his arms crossed.

"It's as much yours as anybody's, possession being nine-tenths and all that," the judge said calmly. "Of course there might be other claimants—hard to say. Why don't you open it and see what the hell you've got to fight over."

Dan nodded and tried to lift it. He winced—the right fifth rib, no doubt—and Mark leaned in to offer a hand. The first impression was a disappointment, more mud, but it was loose and porridge-like, as though it were merely what had sifted in over the decades. through infinitesimally small openings, and been wetted down by the previous night's fire fighting.

Mark reached in and lifted out a handful of the glop and immediately felt the solid pieces it concealed. He spread his fingers slightly and the stuff drained away, leaving three small gold coins in the palm of his hand.

The guy on the backhoe hooted. "It's a damn treasure chest! Whatcha got there, doubloons?"

Mark picked up one of the coins, wiped it gently on his pants and passed it over to Dan, who handed up to Hardcastle. He studied it for a moment, front and back sides.

"Three dollar gold piece, U.S., 1867."

Dan looked slightly disappointed.

"That's three _1867_ bucks," the judge pointed out. "The gold alone is worth a helluva lot more now, not to mention that it's probably a pretty rare coin." He passed the coin back down to Dan.

Mark delved into the box and felt his hand sink deep into muddy coinage. "Hundreds," he said bemusedly. "It _is_ a damn treasure chest."

"The South shall rise again," Hardcastle murmured. "And it did, only not they way they thought. And those old guys kept the secret so well that it was forgotten completely."

He shook his head, then suddenly shrugged and looked around. "Have to notify the authorities again. There'll be historians and what-all. And they may have to post a guard for a while to keep the crazies from digging the whole place up."

Dan looked grim. "Never gonna get this place set to rights and the bed and breakfast going."

"Hey," Mark nudged him, "maybe you should name it 'The Lost Cause'. But," he added more soberly, "at least this should make 'em forget about the other." He hooked his thumb in the direction of the original crime scene.

"Maybe," Dan said frowning down at the filthy lucre. "But is that how it ought to be?"

00000

The backhoe men packed up their machine reluctantly and hauled it away. It obvious that they would have much rather preferred to knock down a couple more of the older trees in the vicinity.

Even before they'd left, Dan returned with Sheriff Jackson, who in turn had summoned the state police. The box had been hefted up onto the porch and, in a compromise between historical and pecuniary interests, the ladies had worn cotton gloves, as they gently sieved the contents through a colander and washed the coins in warm dish water. Two hundred and thirty-five gold pieces in various denominations, a mass of blackened silver which was less identifiable, two gold-plated candlesticks, and heavy necklace set with red stones were inventoried and set aside before Zora and May finally pulled off their blackened gloves.

Sandwiches were served to the increasing crowd of the officially interested. Mark heard Hardcastle laying the groundwork of what would undoubtedly be a strong argument for ownership by both property rights and discovery. He leaned back as yet another scholarly-looking type bustled through wielding a camera and a tape measure. He looked around, astonished at the change twelve hours had wrought. The atmosphere now was almost festive.

He frowned. He hadn't seen Dan in a while. He knew Lisa was under the sheltering care of the aunts. He'd heard them telling her she needed to put her feet up and take advantage of Billy's naptime.

But Dan was . . . _gone_.

Mark stepped down off the porch and strolled across the open part of the property. There was a ghost of a path, further back where most of the grass was untrodden and knee-high. He followed it, vaguely aware of the gradually diminishing sounds from behind him.

Now that he was away from all that, it occurred to him that this was a perfect autumn day. The sky was a rare blue and the gold leaves just starting to fall to the ground.

_Fall_, he thought. It did always seem like the end of the year to him and a reminder of time slipping by. Seven years for him and Hardcastle—but few days as satisfying as this: a happy discovery pulled from the ashes of defeat. He thought he'd remember this one for a long time.

He smiled, and caught sight of Dan, standing a ways off, in his faded flannel shirt, now streaked with mud. He had his back to McCormick and his hands slid into the patch pockets on the back of his jeans. He looked as if her were contemplating something and Mark almost hated to disturb him, but he thought if the guy stayed out here too long, Zora or May would only send him back out again to make sure he'd had a proper number of sandwiches.

"There's chow back there," he said casually as he walked up.

Dan cast a quick sideward glance and nodded, then went back to his contemplating.

"You okay?" Mark asked, and then answered his own question, "Heck of a shock—the whole past few days, really."

"_That's_ the truth," Dan finally answered, with heartfelt sincerity.

"Well, sorry about the Pearl story—the whole eyeball thing." Mark flushed nervously, but having breached the awkwardness, he plunged ahead with the question. "You're okay now, I mean you and Lisa? Doc Brent set it all straight, didn't he?"

Dan looked toward him again. It was a rueful expression that made Mark doubt that Dan had believed a word of Brent's apologetics, and yet there was no anger in the man's stance or face, only an air of sadness.

"He's a kind man, the Doc—smart, too," Dan observed.

Mark nodded wordlessly.

"And what he said, it'll probably work for the Ladies' Guild and all those kind of folks, 'cause May and Zora, they'll make sure of it, you know?"

Mark nodded again, though the thrust of the argument was growing grimmer.

Then Dan shifted unexpectedly, his face darkening and his hands coming out of his pockets. "I just wished to hell it'd never come up, that's all."

Mark stepped back slightly. He wasn't going to get into a fistfight with a guy who already had one broken rib. But Dan wasn't coming out swinging. His hands were down at his sides, though balled in fists.

"I always hoped she'd never have to think about it again," he said, quiet once more.

"Sorry," Mark said, feeling like it was pretty inadequate. And then he added, hesitantly, "About what?"

Dan waved in the general direction of northeast. "Tennessee," he said with vehemence, as though he'd uttered a cussword. "Where we came from. It weren't her fault," he added. "I guess one of 'em musta had brown eyes, huh?"

"You _knew_?"

"I did finish high school, ya know." Dan tempered that with a wry smile.

"Well, hell, so did I," Mark retorted, "but that doesn't mean I remember all that stuff."

"I s'pose you've never looked, and tried to see what wasn't there," Dan said simply. Then he shook his head abruptly. "Don't matter none. He's hers and mine . . . nothing can change that and nobody'll ever hurt her again.

Mark smiled. It wasn't every perfect fall day that came with both a pot of gold and a dose of unvarnished heroism . . . and sandwiches, too.

"Hey," he said suddenly, "There's a pile of food back there." He hooked his thumb back over his shoulder. "You don't want those guys from the Bureau of Finding Stuff under Trees to eat it all, do you?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Family Secrets**

**Epilogue**

**Epilogue**

The Christmas box arrived in due time, containing cranberry scones and a fruitcake of the rare edible variety. Mark staked out the first piece for himself and generously cut the second one for the judge, who was peering down at the letter which had been enclosed with the treats. The body of the correspondence had been composed by Aunt Zora this time, making it no challenge at all to read.

"They made a deal with the state museum—a $200,000 annuity in exchange for the Postgates' rights to the treasure."

Mark frowned. "It was worth about ten times that much."

"Yeah, but this way there's no lawyers wrangling. A state can really wear you out over something like this. Better a chunk now than a little more in twenty years. And, hey," he read on, "they're gonna call it "The Dan and Lisa Postgate Collection" when it finally goes on display." Hardcastle smiled broadly. "That's a nice touch, don'tcha think?"

"It's always a good thing to give credit to the folks you robbed," Mark said archly, but that didn't hold up long. "Yeah," he finally agreed, "better to get something in the bank. I think Dan didn't feel like he had much right to it anyway, but it'll give 'em some security, help with the mortgage."

"And the bed and breakfast is slated to open this spring—a two-page spread in the May issue of the tourism guide. You don't suppose donating the coins helped with that, do ya?"

"Couldn't've hurt." Mark said, taking a bite of fruitcake and studying his own smaller pile of mail.

The top one was obviously a Christmas card, though he was momentarily puzzled by the New York postmark. He ran his least-sticky thumb under the flap and pulled out a gaudy cartoon-style number: Santa on his sled in the pole position at a race track.

He opened it and grabbed for the small photo as it fluttered toward the floor. He read the tag line inside the card and smiled: "Hope Santa comes through for you," but the smile became a grin when he glanced down at the photo in his hand—Gerald and a redhead of a certain vintage standing proudly in front of a sleek silver camping trailer attached to a low-slung Lincoln. He flipped it over and squinted at the scrawled lines.

_Bet the_ _trifecta at the Aqueduct last week—School for Scandal brought home the bacon. See you in January—you're gonna love Sheila.—G. _

_P.S. Wish Scrooge a Merry Christmas for me. _

His grin turned into a barely-stifled laugh. He got a questioning look from Hardcastle, who got only a piece of fruitcake in return.

He thought he'd better keep this one a secret.


End file.
